God is with us? Really?

Text:  Acts 9.36-43

Preached on the occasion of commissioning a prayer ministry team.

There’s a story I love about a little boy who came out of church one Sunday with a very serious expression on his face. His mum asked him what was wrong. And he replied, “The vicar said God is everywhere. Is that true?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And she said God is with us all the time?”

“Yes,” she said again.

“And God is here right now?”

“Yes!”  

He looked around anxiously and whispered, “Well, I wish he’d stop staring at me.”

It’s hard to be certain what we really believe about God’s presence in the world. We say “God is with us,” but it often feels more like a slogan than an experience. Especially when we read dramatic Bible stories like the one from Acts today—where Peter prays, says a few words, and a woman is raised from the dead. Really?

Now, let me be blunt. I do not believe that the job of the church today is to go around attempting resurrections. If you’ve come this morning expecting a literal raising of the dead, I’m afraid you’ve mistaken your preacher for someone from a Marvel film. And yet—and yet—there is something deeply holy in this story of Peter and Tabitha.

Luke tells us that Tabitha—also known as Dorcas—is a disciple, one of the few women in the New Testament to be called that explicitly. She is remembered for her good works and acts of charity. When she dies, the widows she has clothed weep and gather around her body. Peter comes, prays, and she lives again.

Now, I don’t know whether this story is historical reporting or holy storytelling. But what I do know is this: the early church remembered Tabitha not because of the miracle, but because of her love. They remembered her stitching tunics. They remembered her kindness. She brought life while she lived. She was, in her own way, resurrection-shaped.

The miracle, you see, is not just what happened in the upper room. The miracle is what happened before it—through years of faithful, quiet, loving service. And the miracle is what happened after it—when her life was remembered and her love became part of the DNA of the church.

Likewise, in John’s Gospel, Jesus says, “My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.” This is not a promise of magical powers or invincibility. It’s a promise of presence. Intimacy. “No one will snatch them out of my hand.” That’s not a guarantee that bad things won’t happen. It’s a statement of ultimate belonging.

And here’s where I want to get controversial. I think we have trained ourselves to expect too little of God—and too much of religion. We say our prayers, go to church, do our bit, and hope that somehow, God is vaguely pleased and will avoid smiting us. But we do not expect transformation. We have lost the audacity of resurrection. We have made peace with death—not just physical death, but the death of hope, the death of courage, the death of compassion. We have settled for a polite church, rather than a living one.

But resurrection is not polite. Resurrection breaks things open. Resurrection stinks of the tomb and sings of eternity all at once. And it still happens.

Not with trumpets or spotlights. Not usually with the literal reversal of death. But in hospitals, when a nurse holds the hand of a patient and says, “You are not alone.”

• In community kitchens, where a man long dismissed as a drunk finds a sense of worth as he learns to cook for others.

• In the soft words of a prayer offered quietly at the communion rail, while bread is broken and wine is poured and someone dares to whisper to God again after years of silence.

• It happens in the laying on of hands. Not because we are magical. Not because the prayer ministers being commissioned today are better or holier than anyone else. They are not. If anything, they’ve simply agreed to make themselves vulnerable—to be channels of love, to hold the pain and longing of others, and to offer it to God with hope and humility.

And let me tell you, that is resurrection work. Because it takes more courage to stand beside someone who is suffering than it does to perform a miracle in a story. It takes more faith to pray for someone with no guarantee of outcome than to believe a tale of ancient wonders.

In a world addicted to spectacle, we need the quiet power of touch, of presence, of human connection infused with divine possibility.

We are not here to raise the dead in the way Peter did. But we are here to raise each other. To offer hope where there has been despair. To speak life where there has been shame. To clothe the grieving and listen to the lost and remember that no one is ever snatched out of God’s hand.

So let the laying on of hands be a rebellion. A small, sacred uprising against apathy, against numbness, against the idea that prayer is pointless or that love is weak. Let it be a sign that we still believe in healing—not always of the body, but of the soul, the memory, the heart.

Let it be our version of Tabitha’s tunics. A work of love. A sign of grace. A practice of resurrection.  Amen.

Reflections on the 80th Anniversary of VE Day

VE Day is a strange kind of celebration, isn’t it? We use the word ‘victory’, and yet there should be nothing triumphalist about today. It’s a quiet, resolute kind of victory. Not the stuff of fireworks and ticker tape, but of poppies and silence. It’s the victory of people who did what had to be done—often at unimaginable cost—so that something worse would not prevail.

We remember today the ordinary men and women of Havant who rose to extraordinary courage. The ones who left these streets and fields to defend freedoms most of us hadn’t realised were quite so fragile until they were under threat. We remember the crew of HMS Havant, who helped rescue nearly 3,000 troops at Dunkirk before she was bombed and sunk just offshore. They were mostly young—many barely out of school—but they died as saviours. And we are still in their debt.

Now, when a preacher starts talking about war, there’s always a risk of sounding either sentimental or smug. I’ll try to avoid both. The Second World War wasn’t a simple story of good guys and bad guys, though the Nazi regime *was* unambiguously evil. It trafficked in hatred, racism, the machinery of genocide—and it needed to be stopped. But that doesn’t make war holy. War is always a sign of human failure. Necessary, sometimes. Noble, even. But holy? No. War is a consequence of sin, not a cure for it.           

So how does a preacher speak about God on a day like this?

Well, I’ll tell you. I don’t believe that God is the sort who chooses sides in battles, like some celestial football referee. But I do believe in a God who is stubbornly committed to bringing good out of evil. A God who never wastes suffering. A God who, even in the darkest trenches of human cruelty, plants seeds of hope and redemption. And some of those seeds did bloom.

After the War, something remarkable happened. Europe—bloodied and burned—chose not revenge, but reconciliation. Germans and Frenchmen, who had slaughtered each other twice in thirty years, decided to build something together instead. The European Coal and Steel Community—yes, it sounds like the most boring dinner party ever—became a foundation for peace. Christian Democrats, many of them devout Catholics, saw the moral need not just to avoid another war, but to live as neighbours. It was politics, yes, but it was also grace.

Here in Britain, too, there was a sense of moral reckoning. We had been through the fire together—rationing, bombings, evacuees, grief in every street—and somehow, the country came out of it with a bigger sense of “we.” Not just a nation of individuals, but a common life. From that, we saw the birth of the NHS, the expansion of welfare, the commitment to housing and education. Not perfect, but a real attempt to say: if we can fight and die together, perhaps we can live together a bit better, too.

Now, I’m a preacher, not a politician, so I won’t offer partisan applause. But I will say this: the Kingdom of God, as Jesus described it, is always found in the direction of healing, dignity, justice, and peace. And any time a society takes even a half-step that way—towards inclusion, towards compassion, towards fairness—we’re getting warmer. We’re aligning ourselves with God’s dreams for the world.

And even on the world stage, there were glimmers of light. Britain didn’t cling to empire with guns and garrisons. We saw the tide of history coming in and chose to wade out with some grace. India, Burma, Ceylon—independent not by war, but by negotiation. It’s not often history offers us a choice between conflict and dialogue. But when it does, blessed are the peacemakers.

So what shall we say in anxious times such as ours? When once again, populism is rising, and history seems to be stammering instead of singing? We say this: the world *has* changed. Not enough, not yet—but the seeds planted in the ashes of war are still growing. There *has* been real peace. There *has* been progress. And that is not naïve to say—it is faithful.

We honour the dead best not by polishing their medals but by living their legacy. We don’t worship their sacrifice—we *receive* it. As gift, as responsibility, as a summons to be better stewards of the world they helped to save.

So today, as we sing our hymns and lay our wreaths, let us also pledge ourselves anew to the things that make for peace. Let us renounce hatred, in all its forms—whether it wears a swastika or hides behind polite nationalism. Let us build again, not bunkers, but bonds. Let us trust, not in swords, but in the better angels of our nature, and in the God who calls us—still—to love our enemies, to welcome the stranger, and to beat our swords into ploughshares.

For the war is over. But the work is not.

Amen.

Come - whoever you are

Text: John 6.35-40

Jesus said to them, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty. But I said to you that you have seen me and yet do not believe. Everything that the Father gives me will come to me, and anyone who comes to me I will never drive away, for I have come down from heaven not to do my own will but the will of him who sent me. And this is the will of him who sent me, that I should lose nothing of all that he has given me but raise it up on the last day. This is indeed the will of my Father, that all who see the Son and believe in him may have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day.”

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“I am the bread of life,” says Jesus. And we nod, because we’ve heard it before. We’ve got it printed on banners, carved into tables, stitched onto kneelers, maybe even tattooed somewhere we wish we hadn’t! “Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”

It sounds beautiful. It is beautiful. But it also sounds like the kind of promise that might raise a few eyebrows if you’ve lived through a bit of real life. Because here’s the thing: there are people who come to Jesus and still feel hungry. Still feel thirsty. Still feel restless, uncertain, weary. Some of us have prayed the prayers, sung the songs, read the books, said the words — and yet we find ourselves still longing, still aching, still wondering if there’s more.  So what is Jesus really offering here?

He’s not offering us a never-ending lunch, of course. He’s not repeating the miracle of Elisha and widow whose oil never runs out.  Nor is he offering a solution to the theological questions in which some of us get tangled.  Rather, Jesus is offering himself. He’s offering presence. Not packaged answers or easy fixes, but something deeper — something nourishing. Something that gets into your bones and makes you live again.

But let’s be honest: this idea of “believing” in Jesus has gotten a bit tangled over the years.  For some, belief means signing up to a list of doctrines — a checklist of truths you agree to. And don’t get me wrong — truth matters. But Jesus never said, “Whoever recites all the correct theological positions shall never be thirsty.” He said, “Whoever believes in me.”  And that sounds more like ‘trust’ than ‘textbook’. More like ‘relationship’ than ‘recitation’.  Salvation is not offered as a reward for believing the right things about Jesus.  Salvation is a process – an ongoing journey of being changed from glory into glory, or of becoming more like the Master we claim to follow.

When I was young, we used of collect Top Trump cards.  Do you remember them?  They were collections of cards about a particular subject – maybe motorbikes, or cars, or superhero characters.  The object of the game was to trade your cards with others, until you had the complete set.  For some of us, following Jesus can be a bit like that.  We try to collect all the right opinions, the right teachings – so we can feel secure in our salvation.  But, it turns out, Salvation is not about collecting the right ideas, like Pokemon cards. It’s about leaning into Jesus. Coming to him. Living as though what he says about love, mercy, grace, and resurrection might actually be true — even when we’re not quite sure.

And that’s the real tension, isn’t it?

You see, we’ve been trained to want certainty. Certainty feels safe. But the bread of life isn’t a brick of certainty. You don’t build walls with bread. You feed people. You tear it, pass it round, get crumbs on the floor. Bread doesn’t control. It nourishes.  And that’s what Jesus does. He nourishes. He gives of himself. He welcomes the hungry without checking their credentials.  Just as I know you do in the Bus Stop Café.  You don’t check people’s credentials before feeding them.  You don’t give them a theological exam to make sure they believe the right things before you feed them.  And nor does Jesus.

He says, “Whoever comes to me I will never drive away.”  That line should stop us in our tracks.  Because there are those who’ve been made to feel like they don’t belong. Like they’re too messy, too complicated, too unconventional, too full of questions – or in some of the worst cases of Christian pharisaism, too female!  Like God might just quietly back away from them and prefer someone a little neater, a little more well-behaved.

But Jesus says the opposite. “Whoever comes to me I will never drive away.”  Not “whoever gets it all right”. Not “whoever has a perfectly tidy testimony”. Just… “whoever comes…”

That means the door is wide open. And not just open — welcoming.  And that brings us to this table.  Because here, today, we’re not celebrating theological perfection. We’re not celebrating moral achievement. We’re celebrating grace. The kind of grace that says, “You are welcome.” The kind of grace that doesn’t wait for you to be certain, or clean, or calm. The kind of grace that comes running when all you’ve got is hunger and hope.

This bread and wine — symbols of Christ’s body and blood — are not just reminders of a death long ago. They are signs of life now. They are tokens of a truth that still holds: Jesus feeds the hungry. Jesus welcomes the thirsty. Jesus does not turn people away.

And so, if you come today with doubts, come.  If you come with joy, come.  If you come with failure clinging to you, come. If you come with questions that won’t go away, come.  If you come just because you need to believe that love is real and that hope has not died, come.

Jesus is the bread of life. Not a rulebook. Not a membership card. Not a distant deity with a clipboard and a raised eyebrow.  Bread. Nourishment. Welcome. Life.

So come to the table. Bring your hunger. Bring your heart. Bring your whole, unfinished, glorious self.  And let’s eat.  Amen.

Why do I believe?

 Why do I believe?

Honestly, some days I don’t know. Some days belief feels like trying to nail jelly to the wall – messy, frustrating, and ultimately doomed to failure unless you cheat and use Blu-Tack.  It’s such a tough question that, knowing I had to answer it today, I reached out to my Facebook followers for their answers as to why they believe.  They are the Blu-Tack for my theological jelly.  Some of their responses will be found in what follows.

But first, let’s reflect on where we are – we’re in Eastertide, celebrating resurrection and transformation, and the Nicene Creed, that great, ringing declaration of faith, forged in theological fire and imperial politics 1700 years ago. And our Precentor wants me to stand up and explain why I believe?

Let me start by saying this: I don’t believe because of the Nicene Creed. Don’t get me wrong – I’m grateful for it. It’s an extraordinary document. But it’s not where I begin.

I believe because – in the words of Facebook friend and fellow priest Caroline Sackley – “love is always there… a relationship that’s not transactional, but just present.” I believe because, over and over again, I have experienced a presence that is deeper than understanding and more constant than emotion – a presence that I might dare to call “God”.

And when I try to picture that love, to make sense of it, it is Jesus – Jesus of Nazareth – who gives it flesh and blood. As Pope Francis (may he rest in peace) once said, there are many paths to the mystery of God – but for me, Jesus is the clearest lens through which I glimpse the divine.

Now – let me be clear – I don’t believe about Jesus in quite the way the Creed insists. Yes, I’ll say it, or sing it with gusto.  But what draws me, what keeps me, is not a list of doctrinal statements. It is him. The man who cooked breakfast for his friends by the lakeside in today’s Gospel. Who met them in their grief, their betrayal, their confusion – and fed them. Who didn’t ask for a confession of sin, or demand a theology exam. Just “Come and eat.”

You see, I don’t believe because of arguments. Or proof. Or metaphysics. Or creeds. I believe because he is believable.

Take today’s readings. Saul, who becomes Paul, is quite literally knocked off his high horse. (It’s not actually in the text, but I like to picture him landing unceremoniously in the dust, robes all akimbo, spectacles askew – if he wore them – and thinking: “Well that was unexpected.”) His belief isn’t the result of a careful Bible study. It’s a collision. A divine ambush. An experience of presence that leaves him changed forever.

Then there’s the psalmist, in Psalm 30, giving thanks because somehow, after darkness and weeping and despair, joy has come in the morning. That sounds a lot like faith to me: not certainty, but the memory of survival. Not knowing everything, but discovering that God was there even when we couldn’t see.

And in Revelation, the vision is cosmic – angels and elders and living creatures singing in wild praise. It’s not subtle. It’s not rational. It’s overwhelming, bewildering, excessive – like God sometimes is.

Of course, belief isn’t always easy. As Sarah McCarthy-Fry put it on my Facebook feed with bracing honesty: “To be honest, it’s because the alternative is scary and empty… I’d rather believe than not.” That’s not cowardice; it’s courage. The courage to choose hope in the face of fear. The courage to live as if love is stronger than death, even when we’re not sure.

And let’s not pretend the Church has always made belief easy. As Pam Wilkinson so rightly warned on Facebook: “‘Belief’ is one of the slipperiest and most weaponised words in religion.” How often has belief been policed rather than nurtured? Used to exclude rather than embrace? Sometimes I want to say: “I believe – but please don’t ask me to prove it by ticking a box!”

Christine Bennett offered a wonderful insight: she said that at some point, “I found that I knew that… it was true, independently of whether or not I believed it.” That’s not wishful thinking. That’s faith. That’s trust. It’s what the ancient Hebrews meant when they used the word emunah – a kind of steadfastness, a holding-on. Not intellectual assent, but faithfulness.

And speaking of intellectual adventures, we mustn’t overlook Franceska Dante’s majestic satnav theology. She compares the voice of God to “Dozy Doris,” the chaotic voice inside her phone’s GPS – except with more wisdom, less driving into fields, and an actual interest in your well-being. I think that’s marvellous. Because, yes, sometimes faith does lead us into strange fields. But unlike Doris the satnav, God doesn’t abandon us there. God walks with us. Challenges us. Grows us. And always – always – calls us back to the road that leads to love.

Bob – our Acting Archdeacon – summed it up beautifully in a message to me: “God chooses people like us, and still manages to achieve wonderful things!” What a miracle that is. That God chooses us. Not saints or sages or experts – but people like Peter, who denied Jesus three times and still got asked to feed his sheep. Like Saul, violent and self-righteous, transformed into a witness. Like you and me, muddled and inconsistent, yet somehow… chosen.

And finally, via Facebook, the wonderful Clare Amos reminded me of Augustine: “Our hearts are restless till they rest in Thee.” Even that restlessness, that longing – that, too, is part of belief. We are made for more than we can name. There’s a homing instinct in the human soul – and belief is not the cage that traps it, but the path that gives it direction.

So yes, I believe. Not always confidently. Not always coherently. But I believe.

I believe because Jesus shows me what God looks like: vulnerable, just, compassionate. I believe because love has met me in the dark and stayed. I believe because even when I didn’t believe, others carried the flame for me. I believe because faith is not a set of answers but an invitation to a journey – and the journey is worth it.

As we give thanks for the Nicene Creed, let’s remember it’s not a gate to keeps people out – it’s a signpost that points toward mystery. A poem of its time, yes – but one that still sings of the astonishing claim that this – this confusing, wounded, shimmering world – is not abandoned. That God is with us. That love wins.

So: why do I believe? Because I must. Because I can’t not. Because – in the end – it’s true.  Amen

The forgotten disciples...Philip and James

Sermon on the Feast of Philip and James

Texts: Ephesians 1.3–10 and John 14.1–14

It’s not often that Philip and James get top billing. They are what we might call the “understudies” of the apostolic cast—frequently confused with others of the same name, occasionally mistaken for more prominent players, and, let’s face it, usually relegated to the footnotes. James even gets the delightful moniker “the Less.” Not because he was of less faith or passion—he may well have been full of both—but probably because he was shorter. That’s right: two millennia of Christian memory, and he’s remembered as “the little one.” It seems even the communion of saints isn’t free of unfortunate nicknames.

Yet here they are, front and centre, celebrated together on this day—not because they were a dynamic duo in life, but because the church in Rome happened to place their relics in the same place. Ecclesiastical practicality meets holy coincidence. But perhaps that’s a gift to us: a reminder that sainthood does not always begin in glory or celebrity, but in ordinariness, in faithful friendship, and in stumbling attempts to follow the Christ who walks just ahead.

Philip, we’re told, was one of the first to be called, and he promptly went to tell Nathanael. He didn’t draft a doctrinal statement or take a theology degree first. He just said, “Come and see.” Simple. Human. Honest. And maybe that’s where the faith begins, not in answers but in invitation—in the stubborn hope that what we’ve seen of Christ is worth sharing. The Church might do well to remember this today, in an age when it too often acts like it’s in the business of defending Jesus rather than following him.

And it’s Philip again who dares, at the Last Supper, to ask the question everyone else is probably thinking: “Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied.” A bold, honest question. And Jesus responds with what sounds like frustration—“Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and you still do not know me?” But isn’t that the heart of the spiritual life? That tension between proximity and mystery. Between walking alongside the Holy and still not fully recognising it. Philip doesn’t get a theological treatise in return. He gets Jesus himself: “If you’ve seen me, you’ve seen the Father.”

This is the daring claim of our faith—not that God is hidden behind the veil of mystery, but that God has chosen to be known in the dirt and drama of human life. In laughter and in protest. In bread broken and stories told. And if we really believe that, then it has to change everything about how we live and love and do church.

Ephesians gives us the wide-angle lens. It opens with a cosmic hymn, reminding us that we have been “blessed in Christ with every spiritual blessing,” that we are “chosen,” “adopted,” “redeemed.” But this isn’t prosperity gospel. Paul isn’t saying “you’re special” in the Instagram sense. He’s saying that God’s grand purpose—the whole sweep of time—is aimed at unity. All things, in heaven and on earth, gathered up in Christ. And that’s not just a poetic flourish. That’s a mission. That’s a rebuke of every system that divides us—race, class, gender, orientation, ability, creed. If Christ is gathering everything together, then we don’t get to draw lines and say who’s in or out.

But let’s not romanticise the apostles too much. These weren’t spiritual superheroes. They were confused, inconsistent, often fearful. James the Less? He barely makes a headline. And yet here we are, celebrating him. Because it turns out that the kingdom of God does not depend on your fame, your charisma, or your flawless theology. It depends on your presence, your persistence, your willingness to keep showing up. And that might be the best news we’ve got.

You don’t have to be Peter, the rock. You don’t have to be Paul, the theologian. You can be Philip, the inviter. James, the quiet one. You can be unsure, questioning, “less.” And still be part of the divine story.

And let me say this clearly: in an age when Christianity is often known more for exclusion than inclusion, for condemnation more than compassion, we need a Church that takes Philip’s approach—“come and see.” Not “come and conform.” Not “come and be fixed.” Just: “Come and see.” See what love looks like. See what grace tastes like. See what community means when it welcomes the ones the world forgets.

But of course, that kind of invitation demands something of us too. It means we can’t keep Jesus trapped in stained glass or trapped in our own assumptions. It means that if someone asks, “Show us God,” we have to be ready to say, “Look here—at love in action. Look here—at justice rolling down like waters. Look here—at meals shared, debts forgiven, strangers welcomed.” That’s a terrifying thing to claim. But Jesus said it to Philip, and by extension, to us: “If you’ve seen me, you’ve seen the Father.” And now the body of Christ is us.

So today, let’s thank God for these two saints—not for their greatness, but for their willingness. For Philip, who brought his friends to Jesus and dared to ask the questions. For James, the lesser-known, who reminds us that obscurity is no barrier to grace. Let their witness nudge us away from the need to be impressive, and toward the calling to be faithful.

And if the Church today is to be anything more than a relic museum, it must be a place of gathering, of invitation, of unity. The mystery hidden for ages is this: God is not far away. God is among us, in us, calling us always further into love.

So let’s do what Philip did. Invite someone. Ask the awkward question. Be okay with not knowing everything. And like James, be content sometimes just to stand near the cross, quietly witnessing, while others run away. Because God is weaving even that quiet faithfulness into the story of redemption.  Amen.

Easter Hope in a time of death

 Texts: Acts 5.27-32 and  John 20.19-31

So, here we are; the Second Sunday of Easter. The initial joy of Easter morning and a surfeit of chocolate has perhaps subsided a little.  We settle into this new season, trying to grasp what it means to live as people of the resurrection.

And as we gather, we do so with a complex mix of emotions. There’s the persistent echo of Easter joy, yes, but also the very real presence of sadness. We continue to remember John Boulton, whose celebration of life was only two days ago and whose absence is still so tangible in our community. We hold his family and friends in our thoughts and prayers, acknowledging the gap his passing leaves.  And we do so along with the passing of other loved members of our community and families.

Our thoughts also turn naturally to the events of yesterday in Rome – the funeral Mass for Pope Francis. His death on Easter Monday was sudden, and yesterday's farewell brought together world leaders and ordinary faithful in a moment of global remembrance and reflection. It feels significant, perhaps, that just a day after the world formally marked the end of his papacy, we gather here for our own Annual Meeting, reflecting on our small part in the life of the Church Universal.

So, we stand in this space holding local grief for a beloved neighbour and reflecting on the recent farewell to a global spiritual figure, all while trying to live into the Easter message: that mysterious, powerful claim that love is stronger than death, that hope endures beyond loss.

Our readings today meet us right here. In John's Gospel, we find the disciples huddled behind locked doors. It's the very first Easter evening. Resurrection has supposedly happened, but fear and grief are the overwhelming emotions. They've lost their leader in a brutal way, their hopes seem shattered, and they are terrified. The doors are locked fast against a hostile world.

And into that room, saturated with sorrow and fear, Jesus enters. Not breaking down the door, but simply being there among them. His first words? "Peace be with you." Shalom. It's a profound blessing, a deep wish for well-being and wholeness poured into their fractured reality. He acknowledges their state, shows them his wounds – proof that suffering is undeniably real, yet not the ultimate reality – and then breathes his Spirit upon them, commissioning them, turning their grief-stricken huddle into the nascent Church.

We might also remember that profound moment, yesterday, when world leaders gathered around the coffin of the Pope, also shared peace with one another.

But, back to that first Easter day: Thomas wasn't there. Good old Thomas – my namesake, I know! He often gets the label "Doubting Thomas," but perhaps "Honest Thomas" or "Needs-to-see-it-for-himself Thomas" might be fairer. He missed the experience the others had. Is it so wrong that he wanted the same assurance? He wasn't rejecting Jesus; he was articulating a very human need for personal encounter, voicing the doubt that others perhaps felt but kept quiet.

And that honesty, that questioning, is surely part of a real faith journey. It's interesting, isn't it, that Pope Francis, whose life and ministry the world was reflecting on so intently yesterday, often spoke about doubt not as a failure of faith, but as a sign of a living faith – one that seeks and wrestles and grows. He's reported to have said something to the effect that "A faith without doubt is a dead faith." He understood that engaging honestly with our questions is often how we move deeper into relationship with the mystery of God. Thomas models that for us.

And how does Jesus respond to Thomas's need? With utter grace. He appears again, invites the searching questions, offers the very proof Thomas requested: "Put your finger here... reach out your hand..." Again, the greeting is "Peace be with you." It's in that moment of gracious encounter that Thomas makes his great declaration: "My Lord and my God!" Doubt, met by understanding love, blossoms into profound faith. And Jesus’ gentle blessing extends to all of us: "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe."

This encounter transforms people. We see the result in Acts. Peter and the apostles, once hiding in fear, are now standing boldly in public, facing the very authorities who condemned Jesus. They are filled with the Holy Spirit Jesus breathed on them. When told to be silent, Peter's response is unwavering: "We must obey God rather than human beings!" They have become witnesses – not because they have all the answers, but because they have encountered the Risen Christ and know that death is not the end.

We see that witness lived out in countless ways. We saw it in the steady, faithful service of John Boulton right here in our community, making a difference in the lives he touched. We saw it on a global scale in the long ministry of Pope Francis, to whom the world formally bade farewell just yesterday – a ministry marked by efforts to follow God's call amidst the complexities and challenges of our time. Both men, in their unique ways, sought to live as witnesses.

And that brings us to our APCM today. Our look back at the past year is more than just reports and accounts. It's our chance to discern where we have been part of that same ongoing story of witness. Where have we, inspired by the Spirit, chosen to "obey God" in small or large ways? Where have we tried to embody Christ’s peace? Where have we wrestled honestly with our faith, like Thomas, and found God meeting us? Where have the fingerprints of the Spirit been visible in our common life, perhaps inspired by the faithfulness we remember – the local faithfulness of John, the global faithfulness of Pope Francis?

The Easter message isn't just a historical event; it's a present reality, empowered by the Spirit. The Risen Christ continues to meet us – in our joys, our griefs, our certainties, and our doubts. He met the disciples in their locked room; he met Thomas in his searching; he meets us here today.

So, as we prepare for our meeting, let's hold these threads together. Let's give thanks for the lives and witness of John Boulton and Pope Francis. Let's embrace the honesty of Thomas, trusting that our questions are welcome. Let's look back with gratitude for the signs of God's work among us this past year. And let's look forward with hope, asking for the Spirit's courage to continue being witnesses to the resurrection, sharing the peace we have received, and living fully as Easter people. For we, with all Christian people, have the confidence to say “Alleluia!  Christ is Risen!  He is risen indeed, Alleluia!”

A Sermon for John Boulton

 Text:  1 Corinthians 15. 51-58

There’s a profound sense of loss hanging in the air today, isn’t there? It’s like the silence after the final note of a beloved jazz melody. We are here to say farewell to John (Boulton), a man whose very name conjures up images of laughter, community spirit, and an unquenchable zest for life.

We have heard the powerful words of St Paul in his first letter to the Corinthians: “Listen, I tell you a mystery: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed— in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed.” These are words that have echoed through centuries, words that speak of a transformation beyond our earthly comprehension, a victory over death itself.

But what does this transformation mean for us, here today, as we mourn the passing of our dear John? How do we reconcile the sting of his absence with the promise of imperishability? Perhaps the key lies not just in a future resurrection, but in the very real and tangible transformation that John brought about in our lives, in our community.

Think for a moment about Langstone and Havant without John. Imagine a village event without his infectious enthusiasm, a Monday Club gathering without his warm welcome, a street party lacking his mischievous grin – perhaps even a monkey suit appearing when least expected, just to break the ice and bring a smile to our faces. John was the heartbeat of Langstone, and latterly of St Faith’s too.  He was the organiser, the instigator, the one who effortlessly wove the threads of individual lives into the rich tapestry of community.

 In so many ways, John embodied the spirit of Christ that Paul urged the Corinthians to embrace. He loved without reservation, he served without seeking reward, and he brought people together, fostering connection and belonging. He showed us, in his own unique and wonderfully eccentric way, something of the boundless love and inclusive spirit that lies at the heart of the Christian message. He was, dare we say it, a little Christ in our midst, his life a testament to the power of love in action.

And so, as we grapple with the mystery of death and resurrection, let us consider the legacy John leaves behind. It is not etched in stone or confined to the pages of a book, but it lives on in the countless acts of kindness he inspired, in the friendships he forged, in the memories he created. The joy he spread, the laughter he provoked, the sense of community he nurtured – these are the imperishable fruits of his life. These are the ways in which we, and Langstone itself, have been changed by knowing him.

For Cecily, for John Jnr and Billy, and all of John’s family and closest friends, the pain of loss is immeasurable. But I urge you to also hold onto the profound truth that John’s love did not die with him. It lives on in you, in the values he instilled, in the memories you shared. And it lives on in this community, which is stronger and more vibrant because of the man he was.

Paul’s powerful words conclude: “Therefore, my dear brothers and sisters, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labour in the Lord is not in vain.” John’s life was a testament to this truth. His labour of love in this community was most certainly not in vain. It has enriched our lives immeasurably.

The sting of death is real, the grief we feel is profound. But let us also remember that the power of love, the bonds of community, the joy of connection – these are forces that even death cannot extinguish. John showed us that. He lived that. And his legacy calls us to continue that work, to keep building the kind of loving and connected community that he so cherished.

So, as we say our earthly farewells to John, let us do so with gratitude for the gift of his life, for the laughter he shared, for the love he gave. And let us carry forward his spirit, ensuring that the transformation he brought to Langstone and Havant continues to ripple outwards: a testament to a life lived fully, a life that truly made a difference. Amen.

A Progressive Easter Message

Ah, Easter. Here we are again. Another year, another frantic search for chocolate eggs. Another rendition of stories that, let's be honest, raise more questions than they answer – especially for those who avoid the Christian church, because they think we’re just living off fairy tales.  So let’s consider these tales of the Resurrection of Jesus.  Let’s examine them together.  Come, let us reason together, as God said to Isaiah.

First, let’s consider Luke’s account – the one we’ve just heard. Mary Magdalene and some other women trot off to the tomb. Early. Very early. They find the stone rolled away. Empty. Gone. Then, poof! Two men in dazzling clothes appear. They deliver the news: Jesus isn't there. He has risen. Remember what he said? Back in Galilee? About being handed over? About being crucified? About rising on the third day? The women remember. They rush off. They tell the eleven. But the eleven think it's nonsense. Empty talk. Peter, though, he goes to the tomb. He looks. Just the linen wrappings. He wonders.

Now, what about Matthew’s account. Bit different, isn't it? A violent earthquake. An angel descends. This angel rolls back the stone. Sits on it! Terrifying the guards into a faint. Mary Magdalene and the other Mary arrive. The angel tells them not to be afraid. Jesus has risen. He's going ahead to Galilee. They should tell the disciples. They leave. Quickly. Afraid, yet filled with joy. Then, bam! Jesus himself meets them. They clasp his feet. They worship him. Jesus repeats the Galilee instruction.  Hmmm…that’s basically an entirely different story, about the same event.

Shall we look at Mark? Simplest of the lot. The women arrive. They see a young man. Dressed in white. He tells them Jesus is risen. He's going to Galilee. Tell the disciples. The women flee. They say nothing to anyone. Nothing to the eleven, nothing to Peter.  They are afraid. End of story. Well, the original ending, anyway. Later bits were tacked on.

And John? Mary Magdalene goes alone. The stone is gone. She runs to Peter and the beloved disciple. They both run back. Peter goes in. Sees the linen wrappings. The beloved disciple sees and believes. Mary stays outside. Weeping. She sees two angels. Then Jesus appears. She thinks he's the gardener. He says her name. Mary! She recognizes him. She tries to hold him. He says, "Don't cling to me." He hasn't ascended yet. Go tell the others.

Even Paul, writing much earlier, offers a different take. He lists eyewitnesses. Peter. The twelve. Over five hundred brothers and sisters at once. James. All the apostles. Last of all, Paul himself – in a vision on the road to Damascus. No empty tomb mentioned. No women finding angels. Just appearances.

So, what are we to make of all this? Identical accounts? Not exactly. Harmonious? Not really. Different details. Different emphases. Different characters even. Does this undermine the core message? Some people think so. They clutch at these discrepancies. They declare the whole thing a fabrication. A house of cards built on shaky foundations.

But what if the point isn't the literal, blow-by-blow account?  What if the point is the earth-shattering impact of this Jesus?  This radical rabbi who preached love for enemies. Who challenged the powerful. Who offered hope to the marginalized. This man was executed. Brutally. His followers were devastated. Their dreams lay shattered. Yet, something happened. Something profound. Something that reignited their hope. Something that propelled them out into the world with a message that ultimately turned the Roman Empire upside down. Was it a literal resuscitation of a corpse? Maybe. Maybe not.

Perhaps the stories of the empty tomb, the angels, the appearances, are the ways these early followers tried to articulate the inexpressible. The dawning realization that even death could not extinguish the flame that Jesus had lit. That his spirit, his message, his way of being in the world, was still alive. In them. Among them.

Could it be that our modern insistence on a physical resurrection, a scientifically verifiable event, is actually hindering belief for many? We live in a world obsessed with proof. With empirical evidence. And frankly, these ancient stories, with their inconsistencies and supernatural elements, don't always fit neatly into that framework.  It’s vital that we understand that the Gospels were not written as historical documents, but, as John says at the end of his Gospel, ‘to inspire belief’. 

What if we shifted our focus? What if we emphasized the spiritual resurrection? The enduring power of Jesus' love. The transformative potential of his teachings. The way his message continues to inspire acts of compassion, justice, and peace, two thousand years later.

Think about it. It’s impossible to deny the impact of Jesus' life and teachings? It’s impossible to dismiss the countless individuals who have been moved to change their lives, to work for a better world, because of him? Isn't that a kind of resurrection? A resurrection of hope. A resurrection of love. A resurrection of the human spirit.

Maybe the details of how it happened matter less than the undeniable fact that it something happened. Something shifted. That the world was never the same. That a small group of frightened disciples were transformed into bold proclaimers of a new reality. A reality where love conquers hate. Where justice rolls down like a mighty river.  Where even death has lost its sting.

So, this Easter, let's celebrate the enduring legacy of Jesus. Let’s not try to persuade our atheist friends and neighbours that they must believe the impossible in order to follow Jesus.  Or that they must ignore the enormous inconsistencies in the text.  Instead, let's embrace the power of his message. Let’s make Christianity credible again, to a modern generation.  Let's allow Jesus’ spirit to be resurrected in our own hearts and actions. For that, my friends, is a resurrection we can all believe in. A resurrection that continues to change the world, one act of love, one step towards justice, at a time. Now that's something worth celebrating.  Amen.

Maundy Thursday - A thought experiment

Tonight, we stand on the threshold of the darkest hours of our Lord’s earthly life. The shadows lengthen, betrayal lurks, and the air crackles with a tension. We are here to remember, to reflect, and yes, perhaps to squirm a little in our comfortable pews. Let us gather our thoughts this Maundy Thursday. A peculiar name, isn’t it? “Maundy.”

The word “Maundy” itself, you see, derives from the Latin word “mandatum,” meaning “commandment.” Specifically, the commandment Jesus gave to his disciples at that last, fateful supper: “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.” (John 13:34).

Now, let’s be honest. “Love one another” sounds lovely, doesn’t it? Warm, fuzzy, like a freshly laundered fleece. But Jesus wasn’t suggesting a gentle hug and a shared cup of tea. He had just done something utterly scandalous, something that would have made the social hierarchy of the time choke on its unleavened bread. He, the teacher, the Lord, had knelt down and washed the grubby, travel-stained feet of his disciples. Including Judas’s. Think about that for a moment. The man who was about to plunge the dagger of betrayal into his heart had his feet tenderly cleansed by the very hands he would soon deliver to his executioners.

This, my friends, is the essence of the “mandatum.” It’s not just a suggestion; it’s a command, an instruction manual for how we are to live as followers of Christ. It’s not about lofty pronouncements from pulpits (though I am rather enjoying this bit, I must confess). It’s about getting down and dirty, about serving, about humbling ourselves before one another, even – especially – those we find difficult, those whose feet are particularly… fragrant.

Tonight’s service often centres on the sharing of bread and wine, the Eucharist, the Lord’s Supper. And rightly so. It is a powerful and profound act of remembrance, a tangible connection to that last meal, a sharing in the body and blood of our Saviour. But let us not forget the prelude to that sacred meal, the act that Jesus himself highlighted as the example to follow: the washing of feet.

Imagine, if you will, a Christian Church where the primary act of worship wasn’t the reverent receiving of a wafer and a sip of wine, but the humble, often awkward, act of washing each other’s feet.

Picture Sunday mornings. Instead of the hushed reverence as we queue for communion, we’d be lining up with towels and basins. The air would be thick with the scent of soap and perhaps the faint aroma of sweaty trainers… well, let’s not dwell on that. Pastors wouldn’t be polishing their sermons quite so diligently; they’d be scrubbing heels. The collection plate might be replaced by one of those foot spas.

Think of the theological implications! Our understanding of humility would be radically redefined. We couldn’t just *talk* about being servants; we’d have to *be* servants, literally. Church politics would likely be less about who gets the best committee chair and more about who’s willing to tackle Mrs Miggin’s notoriously pungent big toe.

Our outreach programmes would take on a whole new dimension too. Perhaps we’d have mobile foot-washing stations. Evangelism might involve a gentle exfoliation and a word of encouragement. Mission trips would require industrial quantities of foot cream.

Of course, there would be challenges. The shy amongst us would break out in a cold sweat at the thought of exposing their neglected extremities. The germaphobes would require hazmat suits. And let’s not even contemplate the logistical nightmare of an entire congregational foot-washing session. The health and safety regulations alone would be very challenging.

But consider the profound impact on our relationships. How could we hold onto grudges, how could we foster division, when we had just knelt before one another, intimately caring for a part of the body we often neglect and hide? The act of washing feet forces a vulnerability, a stripping away of pretences. It’s hard to feel superior to someone whose calloused soles you’ve just gently massaged.

This evening, as we reflect on the Last Supper, let us not just focus on the bread and the wine. Let us also remember the basin of water and the towel. Let us remember the command, the “mandatum,” to love one another as Christ loved us – a love that is not afraid to get its hands (and knees) dirty.

Perhaps we won’t all be rushing out to wash each other’s feet in the aisles after the service (though the thought is rather… invigorating). But let the spirit of that act permeate our lives. Let us seek out opportunities to serve, to humble ourselves, to show love in tangible, practical ways, even when it’s uncomfortable, even when it’s a bit smelly.

For in the washing of feet, we find not just an act of service, but a powerful symbol of the love that binds us together, the love that Christ commanded us to share. And that, my friends, is a command worth heeding, one grubby foot at a time. Amen.

In the light of progressive Christianity, is there any hope of Heaven?

 Okay. Let's talk about the big one: Eternal Life. Specifically, through the lens of progressive Christianity. The title asks: "In the light of progressive Christian teaching, can we have any hope of eternal life?"

Now, let's be honest. For generations, "eternal life" often meant one thing: pearly gates, streets paved with gold (sounds terribly impractical, frankly – imagine the glare!), fluffy clouds, maybe reuniting with Great Aunt Mildred (which, depending on your Great Aunt Mildred, might be more of a threat than a promise), and possibly endless harp practice. It was a destination, a reward, a place you went after shuffling off this mortal coil, hopefully having ticked the right boxes.

Progressive Christianity, bless its questioning heart, tends to look at this traditional picture and... well, cough politely. We see the fingerprints of ancient cosmology, cultural assumptions, and maybe a touch of wishful thinking (or crowd control). We grapple with a God who seems infinitely more interested in justice, mercy, and love here and now than in managing celestial real estate.  And we are open to what both other religions and scientific observation might have to teach us.

So, does ditching the literalist, gated-community afterlife mean we ditch hope altogether? Do we just shrug, say "ashes to ashes," and focus solely on composting? I’d argue: Absolutely not! But our understanding of eternal life gets a radical makeover. It becomes less about duration and more about quality and connection.

Think about it. Jesus didn't spend much time sketching architectural plans for heaven. His central message wasn't "Be good so you can get into the sky-mansion later." It was "The Kingdom of God is at hand." It's here. It's now. It's in the act of feeding the hungry, welcoming the stranger, challenging oppression, forgiving debts, loving extravagantly – even loving your enemies (still working on that one, if I'm honest).

This "Kingdom" living, this immersion in God's way of love and justice – that has an eternal quality to it. When we participate in acts of selfless love, profound compassion, or courageous justice, we are tapping into something timeless, something divine, something that resonates with the very Ground of Being. That feels pretty eternal to me. It's experiencing the life of the ages, in the midst of time.

So, one progressive hope for eternal life is this: Living a life so infused with divine love and purpose that its significance echoes beyond our physical lifespan. We live on in the love we've shared, the justice we've fought for, the ripples of kindness we've set in motion. Our "eternal life" is woven into the fabric of the ongoing story of God's work in the world. Less harp solos, more positive legacy.

Now, what about the big event? The linchpin of traditional hope? The Resurrection. Ah, yes. The empty tomb. The cornerstone of faith for many.

Progressive Christians don't necessarily throw the Resurrection out, but we certainly look at it with different eyes. We notice, for instance, that the four Gospel accounts – supposedly eyewitness or close-to-eyewitness reports – are, shall we say, charmingly inconsistent on the details. Let's do a quick sketch analysis: 

·           Who went to the tomb? Was it Mary Magdalene alone (John)? Mary Magdalene and "the other Mary" (Matthew)? Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome (Mark)? Or "the women who had come with him from Galilee," including Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and "the others with them" (Luke)? Quite a crowd fluctuation there.

·           What did they see? One angel (Matthew, Mark – sitting inside the tomb in Mark, outside in Matthew)? Two men in dazzling apparel (Luke)? Or just... no Jesus, and then later Jesus himself appearing (John)? Did the stone get rolled away (Matthew), or was it already rolled away (Mark, Luke, John)?

·           What were the instructions? Go tell the disciples to meet him in Galilee (Matthew, Mark)? Or... remember what he told you in Galilee, and then the disciples didn't believe the women anyway (Luke)? Or... Mary just encounters Jesus, thinks he's the gardener, and is told not to cling to him (John)?

·           Where did Jesus first appear to the wider group? In Galilee on a mountain (Matthew)? Or behind locked doors in Jerusalem that very evening (Luke, John)?

Now, a fundamentalist might tie themselves in knots trying to harmonize these accounts into one coherent story – like a crime scene investigation – “C.S.I.: The Jerusalem episode”. A skeptic might just say, "See? It's all made up!"

But a progressive perspective might say: Hold on. What if these discrepancies aren't a sign of fabrication, but a sign of something else? What if they show multiple individuals and communities grappling with an experience so profound, so reality-shattering, that it defied simple, uniform description? What if the core message – that Jesus's presence, power, and message were experienced as overwhelmingly alive and vindicated by God after his brutal execution – is the point, not the precise choreography at the tomb?

The "Resurrection" for many progressives becomes less about a resuscitated corpse wandering around Galilee (though, you know, stranger things...) and more about the transformative experience of the disciples. These weren't people reporting a straightforward event; these were people whose lives were utterly turned upside down. From hiding in fear, they burst out with world-changing courage. They experienced Christ as present, empowering them, validating his message of love and the Kingdom. That experience was the Resurrection event for them, described in the symbolic language available to them.

So, can we hope for our own resurrection? Maybe not in the sense of bodily resuscitation. But hope for what?  

·           Hope for Transformation: Hope that, like the disciples, we can be transformed by the living spirit of Christ, moving from fear to courage, from apathy to action.

·           Hope for Continuation: Hope that the love and energy that constitute "us" are not simply extinguished, but are somehow gathered back into the Source of all Being, the God from whom we came. Maybe "eternal life" is less about individual consciousness persisting forever in a recognisable form, and more about rejoining the great Dance, the eternal energy of Love itself. It's a mystery, and perhaps that's okay.

·           Hope in the Enduring Presence: Hope that the Divine presence experienced by the disciples is still accessible to us now, guiding, comforting, and challenging us.

Progressive Christianity doesn't offer neat, tidy answers shrink-wrapped for easy consumption. It invites us into the questions, into the mystery. It shifts the focus from escaping this world to transforming it, inspired by Jesus. It reframes "eternal life" from an endless future duration to a quality of living steeped in divine love now, leaving a legacy that endures. And it sees the Resurrection less as a historical puzzle to be solved, and more as a powerful testament to the enduring, transformative experience of Christ's presence.

So, can we have hope? Yes. A profound hope. Not necessarily for pearly gates or escaping the cycle, but hope in the enduring power of Love, hope in the meaning we create, hope in our connection to the Divine Mystery that holds us all, before, during, and after our brief, beautiful time on this earth. It’s a hope grounded not in escaping life, but in living it fully, deeply, and justly, participating in the "eternal" quality of God's kingdom, here and now. And frankly, that sounds a lot more interesting than harp lessons.

(Images created with ImageFX from Google Labs)

 

Never Mind the Palms, Where’s the Peace? A sermon for Palm Sunday

Never Mind the Palms, Where’s the Peace? (Luke 19:28-40)

Well, here we are again. Palm Sunday. Normally, you would be spared a sermon from me on this day, because, over the last 10 years, it has been our custom (along with many traditional churches) to read the Passion narrative, during the sermon slot.  But this year, I wanted to try something different.  You see, it occurred to me that in the 10 years we have celebrated Palm Sunday together, we have not once stopped to think about what it may mean.  And, most especially, what Luke’s account of the Entry into Jerusalem might mean.

This is the day when we witness the annual miracle of dried vegetation being folded into shapes vaguely resembling crosses. Palms were an ancient symbol of monarchy and power.  In much the same way that today’s crowds will hang bunting, and wave little Union Flags when the King passes by, ancient peoples waved palm branches. 

But today, my friends, we are in the Year of Luke in our lectionary cycle. And I want to suggest that if we only read Luke’s account of this day, we might need to seriously rethink our Palm Sunday routines.  We might discover Luke paints a picture far stranger, more challenging, and ultimately, more profoundly relevant than the generic, flag-waving parade we often settle for.

We tend to create a sort of ‘Greatest Hits’ version of Bible stories in our heads. Palm Sunday? Ah yes, Jesus rides into Jerusalem on a donkey, happy crowds wave palm branches, everyone shouts ‘Hosanna!’. Simple enough. Except… when you actually sit down and read Luke’s account… something’s missing. Actually, two rather significant things are missing or noticeably altered.

First – and brace yourselves, all who cherish those palm crosses – according to Luke, there are no palms!  Not a single frond is mentioned. Matthew has them. Mark mentions leafy branches. John is very specific about palm branches from date trees. But Luke? Nothing. Zilch. Nada.

Why? Why does meticulous Luke omit the very symbol that gives this Sunday its name? Did the Jerusalem council ban palm trees for health and safety reasons that year? Unlikely. Scholars like Clare Amos, whose thoughtful article informed this sermon, suggest Luke has a specific agenda. Luke, it seems, wants none of the conventional association with nationalism and monarchy.  His king is arriving, make no mistake, but not that kind of king. Not the conquering hero many longed for. Luke deliberately sidesteps the nationalist symbol. So, maybe next year, instead of palm crosses, we attempt cloak origami? Could be interesting.

But the second, and perhaps even more startling difference, is what the crowd shouts. In Matthew, Mark, and John, the cry is clear: "Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!" And ‘Hosanna’ is absolutely crucial. It’s not just first-century liturgical filler. It literally means "Save us, now!".  It's a plea for deliverance – the kind of salvation many expected the Messiah to bring: political liberation, national restoration, freedom from Roman boots.

Now look closely at Luke. What do his disciples shout? Verse 38: "Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!"

Hold on… what? Peace… in heaven?  Not ‘Hosanna!’ Not even, significantly, the angels’ song at Jesus’ birth which proclaimed "Peace on earth, goodwill among people". No, suddenly, the peace is relocated upstairs, to heaven.

What on earth – or indeed, in heaven – are we to make of that?  It sounds… well, a bit weak, doesn't it? A bit disconnected from the simmering political tension, the real suffering under occupation. "Peace in heaven!" Thanks for that. Very useful down here.

But maybe, just maybe, Luke is doing something incredibly clever, deeply subversive. By replacing the desperate cry of "Save us now!" with "Peace in heaven," Luke fundamentally reframes who this king is and what kind of peace he brings.

This king, Luke insists, brings a peace that has its origin and its foundation in heaven, in God's ultimate reality. It’s a peace operating by different rules. It’s the peace Jesus himself will speak of: "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives." (John 14:27).

And crucially, just a few verses later in Luke’s narrative (verses 41-44), Jesus weeps – weeps! – over Jerusalem. Why? Precisely because it did not recognise "the things that make for peace" in that very moment of his arrival. The city was looking for Hosannas, for earthly salvation, for a political strongman, and it completely missed the arrival of heaven's peace. They wanted peace on their terms, not God's. And the result, Jesus laments, will be devastation.

So, what does this Lukan Palm Sunday, stripped of its familiar palms and its expected Hosannas, say to us, here in Havant, in 2025? Well, it challenges us profoundly.

First, it demands we ask: What kind of king are we truly looking for? Are we still secretly hoping for a Messiah who fits our political mould? One who will simply make us comfortable, secure our interests, vanquish our enemies, and deliver ‘salvation’ tailored to our desires?  

Second, What kind of peace are we praying, and working, for? Is it just the absence of conflict in our own lives, a quiet life? Is it a peace maintained by economic walls or military might? Or are we seeking that deeper, harder "peace from heaven" – a peace rooted in God's justice, demanding reconciliation, requiring forgiveness, lived out in alignment with God's will, even when it’s unpopular or costly? Can we recognise, as Jerusalem tragically failed to do, the "things that make for peace" in our own complex time – tackling poverty, pursuing racial justice, welcoming the refugee, caring for our wounded planet, speaking truth to power – even if it doesn't look like a victory parade?

Third, Are we missing the point of the procession? We rightly enjoy the communal celebration of Palm Sunday. But Luke reminds us it’s not just a street party. It’s the arrival of a king whose reign leads inexorably to the Cross – in much the same way as our palms are woven into crosses. The cloaks spread enthusiastically on the road will soon be replaced by the soldiers gambling callously for Jesus’ seamless robe. The shouts of praise will curdle into cries of "Crucify him!" Luke’s Palm Sunday isn’t simple triumph; it’s triumph shot through with impending tragedy, precisely because the peace being offered is about to be brutally rejected. Are we guilty of celebrating the entry while conveniently ignoring the profound cost of the peace Jesus actually embodies and offers?

Luke’s Palm Sunday isn't meant to be entirely comfortable. It deliberately pulls the rug out from under our easy assumptions. It presents us with a king and a kingdom that don't quite fit our neat categories, challenging us.  So when Jesus rides into our lives, our town, our world today, what are we shouting? Are we demanding ‘Hosanna! Save us!’ on our own terms? Or are we ready, truly ready, heart and soul, to welcome the challenging, transformative, world-altering reality of ‘Peace from Heaven’?

May we, unlike that beloved, tragic city, recognise the things that make for peace, in this our day. Amen