Bible Sunday: Finding Jesus between the Lines

(See the readings on which this sermon was based at the end of the sermon text below...)

There’s a lot at stake on this Bible Sunday.  Any of you who read social media, or keep abreast of the religious pages in the Times, will be aware that the Anglican Communion is tearing itself apart at the moment.  The issues are many – including the headship of women (following the nomination of the new Archbishop).  Another hot topic is the way that we should treat gay couples and other LGBTQ+ minorities.  There are other arguments to (such as the appropriateness of Synodical Government) but they all have their roots in the WAY that Christians read their Bibles.  Is the Bible the inerrant, infallible collection of writings that many claim.  Or is it something else?

The author Anne Lamott once said: “You can safely assume that you’ve created God in your own image when it turns out God hates all the same people you do.”  If Anne Lamott ever needed a sermon illustration to prove that point, she’d only have to look at how the Bible has been used through history.  Scripture — this extraordinary library of poetry, prophecy and parable — has been waved like a sword in the air more times than a medieval knight with ADHD.

Psalm 119, which we heard just now, is a love song to Scripture.  “Your decrees are wonderful,” the psalmist sings.  “Truly, I direct my footsteps by your word.”  The psalmist weeps — literally weeps — because people ignore God’s teaching.  And I get that.  I really do.  For Scripture contains the distilled wisdom of generations: their struggles to understand justice, holiness, and love.  When we ignore Scripture, we cut ourselves off from that wisdom.  We become like spiritual teenagers — insisting we know everything already while driving the family car into the hedge.

But if we truly love Scripture — as the psalmist does — we must recognise something essential.  Scripture is a signpost.  A pointer.  A witness.  But it is not God.  The Bible itself tells us that the Word of God — with a capital W — is not parchment or ink.  The Word of God is a person.  The Logos.  Jesus Christ.

We see this in our Gospel reading.  Jesus goes into the synagogue in Nazareth.  He takes a scroll — a Scripture text!  — and finds the passage from Isaiah.  And he reads: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me… to bring good news to the poor… to proclaim release to captives… recovery of sight to the blind.”  Then he rolls it up and sits down — congregations can only dream of such short sermons!  And he says: “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”  In other words: “This — this hope, this liberation, this love — this is what the Word of God looks like.  And you’re looking at him.”

Scripture is not God — it points to God.  The Bible is not the destination — it’s the sat-nav.  And if you’ve ever used a sat-nav, you’ll know they sometimes shout confidently while leading you straight into somebody’s duck pond.  The Bible needs interpretation.  It needs wisdom.  It needs the Spirit.  It needs Jesus.

This is where St Paul helps us.  In Romans 15, he urges the church to be patient with those whose faith differs from ours.  “We who are strong ought to put up with the failings of the weak,” he writes.  Isn’t that refreshing?  Instead of shouting “Repent, you heretics!” Paul says “Be patient.  Build each other up.”  And let’s be honest: every one of us has been weak at some point.  We’ve all misunderstood Scripture.  We’ve all clutched our favourite verses like a teddy we refuse to let go — even when it’s getting a bit threadbare and smells like old cheese.

Paul reminds us that Scripture was given “for our instruction, so that by steadfastness and the encouragement of the Scriptures we might have hope”.  Hope — not fear.  Encouragement — not condemnation.  Scripture is meant to help us grow — not shrink.  It’s a lamp to our feet — not a weapon to bash our neighbour on the head. 

In Greek, Paul calls Scripture ‘theopneustos’ – a unique word in the Bible, which gets translated as either ‘God-breathed’ or ‘inspired by God’.  I love the first translation – ‘God-breathed’ - the idea, that the breath of God breathes through Scripture.  And much as our own breath cannot be caught and held onto…Scripture too is a living, literally breathing thing.  But the translation of ‘inspired by God’ is lovely too.  Scripture, in my mind, is inspired in much the same way as a landscape inspires a painter.  The painter’s image will never BE the landscape – but it will encourage others to visit it, walk in it, smell it and touch it.

But I know — and some of you know — that there are some Christians who cling to the Bible as if it dropped from heaven fully bound in leather, signed by God personally with a divine fountain pen.  There are even some who cling to the King James Translation, as ‘the original’ – even though modern scholars have uncovered all sorts of translation errors in it.  I wonder whether such people worry that if one verse turns out to be poetry and not physics, the whole thing will collapse like a soufflé in a thunderstorm.  We must be patient with such beloved siblings in the faith.  They’re holding tight to the Bible because they sincerely want to hold tight to God.  And the only way we will ever help them see Scripture as Jesus used Scripture is through compassion and gentleness.  We need to help them see Scripture as a springboard to love, not a cudgel with which to beat those with whom we disagree.

Our task, as a progressive community, is not to discard the Bible or treat it as optional.  Far from it!  We must read it more.  Delight in it more.  Argue with it more!  But always with our eyes fixed on Jesus — who is the fulfilment and focus of all Scripture.  If our interpretation makes us more loving, more liberating, more Christ-like — we’re probably on the right track.  If it makes us mean, small, frightened or angry at people who are not like us — then we’ve probably taken a wrong turn by the duck pond in the landscape painting.

The psalmist wept because people ignored God’s teaching.  Perhaps today the Spirit weeps because we sometimes weaponise that teaching.  I pray constantly that God’s Word — the written kind and the incarnate kind — may soften our hearts, sharpen our minds, and open our lives to love.

So today, on Bible Sunday, let us give thanks.  For scrolls and parchments.  For prophets and poets.  For the hope and encouragement Scripture still brings.  But above all, let us give thanks for the One to whom Scripture points.  The Word made flesh.  The scroll unrolled.  The love of God with hands and a heartbeat.  Jesus — our rabbi, our redeemer, our reason for reading.  Amen.

The Readings on which this sermon was based are:

Readings

Psalm 119.129–136

Your decrees are wonderful; therefore my soul keeps them.

The unfolding of your words gives light; it imparts understanding to the simple.

With open mouth I pant, because I long for your commandments.

Turn to me and be gracious to me, as is your custom towards those who love your name.

Keep my steps steady according to your promise, and never let iniquity have dominion over me.

Redeem me from human oppression, that I may keep your precepts.

Make your face shine upon your servant, and teach me your statutes.

My eyes shed streams of tears because your law is not kept.

Romans 15.1–6

We who are strong ought to put up with the failings of the weak, and not to please ourselves.

Each of us must please our neighbour for the good purpose of building up the neighbour.

For Christ did not please himself; but, as it is written, ‘The insults of those who insult you have fallen on me.’

For whatever was written in former days was written for our instruction, so that by steadfastness and by the encouragement of the scriptures we might have hope.

May the God of steadfastness and encouragement grant you to live in harmony with one another, in accordance with Christ Jesus, so that together you may with one voice glorify the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Luke 4.16–24

When he came to Nazareth, where he had been brought up, he went to the synagogue on the sabbath day, as was his custom.

He stood up to read, and the scroll of the prophet Isaiah was given to him.

He unrolled the scroll and found the place where it was written:

‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor.

He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.’

And he rolled up the scroll, gave it back to the attendant, and sat down.

The eyes of all in the synagogue were fixed on him.

Then he began to say to them, ‘Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.’

All spoke well of him and were amazed at the gracious words that came from his mouth.

They said, ‘Is not this Joseph’s son?’

He said to them, ‘Doubtless you will quote to me this proverb, “Doctor, cure yourself!”

And you will say, “Do here also in your home town the things that we have heard you did at Capernaum.”’

And he said, ‘Truly I tell you, no prophet is accepted in the prophet’s home town.’

The Breath of God

Readings: 2 Timothy 3.14-4.5 and Luke 18.1-8.

In our reading from 2 Timothy 3, we heard that oft-quoted line: “All Scripture is inspired by God.”  Other translations render it “God-breathed”—a literal version of the Greek word theopneustos. 

I’ve always liked that phrase “God-breathed.”  It sounds wonderfully alive, doesn’t it?  It evokes something wild and holy—like the first breath that stirred Adam into life, or the gale that filled the upper room, or even that awkward moment when Jesus, after the Resurrection, breathed on his disciples.  (You can almost hear them thinking, “Steady on, Lord—what have you been eating?”)

Paul says that all Scripture is theopneustos—but how?  Does that mean every comma and clause was dictated by the Almighty?  Or is it more like a musician taking up a flute: the breath passes through a very human instrument, producing notes that may be sharp or flat, yet still carry the melody of the divine?

The word theopneustos appears nowhere else in the Bible.  It’s as if Paul coined it on the spot, to capture that mysterious intersection between heaven and human words.  It doesn’t say the text is God, but that it’s breathed through by God—animated, shaped, inspired.  And breath, as we know, is a slippery thing.  You can’t hold it.  You can only feel it move through you.

That’s why I sometimes compare the Bible not to a photograph of God, but to a painting inspired by God’s landscape.  A painting doesn’t contain the mountain or the sea; it points towards them.  It invites us to see what the artist saw—and perhaps even to walk in that same landscape ourselves.  The trouble comes when we start worshipping the painting instead of exploring the view.

Now, I say this knowing that some of you approach Scripture differently—and that’s fine.  Some of you hold to it, word for word, as the unerring revelation of God’s truth.  I respect that deeply.  You are people who love the Bible—who read it, study it, and pray over it.  In a world more likely to scroll through TikTok than Timothy, that’s no small gift to the Church.  You remind us that faith is built on story and conviction, not just sentiment.

But perhaps the breath of God moves in more than one way.  Sometimes it gusts and blows things over; sometimes it whispers.  Sometimes it moves through a prophet or a psalmist; sometimes through a scientist or an artist; sometimes even, heaven help us, through a sermon.

Which brings me to the Gospel reading—the persistent widow and the unjust judge.  The widow bangs on the judge’s door until he gives her justice.  And Jesus says, “If even an unjust judge will listen, how much more will God grant justice to his chosen ones who cry out day and night.”  It’s a rousing picture of perseverance in prayer.  Don’t give up!  Keep knocking!  Keep pounding on the gates of heaven! 

But notice how Jesus ends: “When the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?”  Not results, but faith.  Not outcomes, but trust.  For me, that’s what prayer is about—not twisting God’s arm, but tuning our hearts.  It’s less like lobbying Parliament and more like sitting by a stream.  You listen to its flow.  You bring to mind the faces and stories of others, and you ask—not “Lord, fix them,” but “Lord, show me what part I might play in their healing.”

C. S. Lewis once said, “Prayer doesn’t change God; it changes me.”  When I pray for someone, I find myself more tender towards them.  When I pray for peace, I notice my own unpeacefulness.  When I pray for the hungry, I remember the tin of beans at the back of my cupboard.  Prayer re-aligns the compass of the soul.

Still, I admire those who storm heaven’s gates.  Their persistence is a holy thing.  Perhaps we need both kinds of prayer—the loud and the quiet, the pounding and the pondering, the petition and the patience.  Even Elijah, who once called down fire from heaven, later discovered that the Lord was not in the wind or the fire, but in the still small voice.

Prayer, then, is a kind of breathing.  Breathing in God’s Spirit, breathing out our worries.  Breathing in compassion, breathing out anger.  Prayer is the exchange of breath—the breath of the human with the breath of God.  No wonder both Paul and Luke speak of Scripture and prayer in terms of breath.  God’s word is breathed through us; our words are breathed back to God.

If we forget that, we risk becoming—well—tribal.  (You may like to check out Thursday’s sermon, The Trouble with Tribes.)  Tribes are marvellous when they give us belonging, but dangerous when they start building fences around God’s breath.  The Spirit, after all, blows where it wills.  It doesn’t carry a membership card for any particular wing of the Church.  Sometimes it lands on conservatives, sometimes on liberals, and sometimes—miracle of miracles—it unites them, usually over a plate of cake.

So perhaps that’s our task: to stay open to the breath.  To let Scripture breathe through us afresh—not as a dead letter, but as a living word.  To let prayer breathe through us too—not as a transaction, but as a transformation.  To hold fast to the faith that shaped us, yet keep the windows open for whatever fresh wind God might send.

For whether we are pounding on the door or listening at the keyhole, we are still, thank God, in the same house.  The same breath fills our lungs.  The same Spirit gives us life.  And that, dear friends, is inspiration indeed.  Amen.

The Politics of the Bible

Readings...

Nehemiah 8.1–12

All the people gathered together into the square before the Water Gate. They told the scribe Ezra to bring the book of the law of Moses, which the Lord had given to Israel. Accordingly, the priest Ezra brought the law before the assembly, both men and women and all who could hear with understanding. He read from it facing the square before the Water Gate from early morning until midday, in the presence of the men and the women and those who could understand; and the ears of all the people were attentive to the book of the law. The scribe Ezra stood on a wooden platform that had been made for the purpose. And Ezra opened the book in the sight of all the people, for he was standing above all the people; and when he opened it, all the people stood up. Then Ezra blessed the Lord, the great God, and all the people answered, “Amen, Amen,” lifting up their hands. Then they bowed their heads and worshipped the Lord with their faces to the ground.

So they read from the book, from the law of God, with interpretation. They gave the sense, so that the people understood the reading. And Nehemiah, who was the governor, and Ezra the priest and scribe, and the Levites who taught the people said to all the people, “This day is holy to the Lord your God; do not mourn or weep.” For all the people wept when they heard the words of the law. Then he said to them, “Go your way, eat the fat and drink sweet wine and send portions of them to those for whom nothing is prepared, for this day is holy to our Lord; and do not be grieved, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.” So the people went their way to eat and drink and to send portions and to make great rejoicing, because they had understood the words that were declared to them.

Luke 10.1–12

The Lord appointed seventy others and sent them on ahead of him in pairs to every town and place where he himself intended to go. He said to them, “The harvest is plentiful, but the labourers are few; therefore ask the Lord of the harvest to send out labourers into his harvest. Go on your way. See, I am sending you out like lambs into the midst of wolves. Carry no purse, no bag, no sandals; and greet no one on the road. Whatever house you enter, first say, ‘Peace to this house!’ And if anyone is there who shares in peace, your peace will rest on that person; but if not, it will return to you. Remain in the same house, eating and drinking whatever they provide, for the labourer deserves to be paid. Do not move about from house to house. Whenever you enter a town and its people welcome you, eat what is set before you; cure the sick who are there, and say to them, ‘The kingdom of God has come near to you.’ But whenever you enter a town and they do not welcome you, go out into its streets and say, ‘Even the dust of your town that clings to our feet, we wipe off in protest against you. Yet know this: the kingdom of God has come near.’ I tell you, on that day it will be more tolerable for Sodom than for that town.

Sermon: The Politics of the Bible

Picture the scene.  The leaders of Israel have just returned from exile in Babylon.  Seventy years away.  That’s three or four generations.  The ordinary people who stayed behind have got on with life as best they could.  They’ve picked up Babylonian ways, Babylonian laws, even Babylonian gods.  They’ve married into other tribes, settled into new customs, and the old Law of Moses has become a distant memory.  

But now the leaders are back.  Nehemiah the Governor.  Ezra the High Priest.  The Levites in their finest robes, standing tall on a great platform.  And they’ve brought with them the Torah—the five books of Moses.  Precious relics, polished and edited by scribes in exile, welded together into one seamless national story.  Stories of Abraham, Moses, Judah—the roots of a people.  Laws about land, justice, strangers, worship.  All the scaffolding of a nation under God.  

Ezra stands before the crowd.  This is his moment.  Like a Prime Minister at party conference, he knows this is the speech that will set the tone for years to come.  If he gets this right, faith will be rekindled, identity restored, and the old leaders will be firmly back in charge.  

How will the people react?  

We’re told they burst into tears.  But why?  Joy, perhaps, at rediscovering their story.  Or sorrow, for the ways they’d broken God’s laws.  Or maybe fear—that breaking them again might unleash God’s wrath.  

Because these weren’t just religious words.  The Law of Moses was political through and through.  It set out systems of justice, land distribution, protection for foreigners, ways of dealing with debt and conflict.  It was politics rooted in God’s vision of fairness.  

And when Jesus comes along, centuries later, he takes up the same tune.  He sends seventy disciples out, Luke tells us, to proclaim the Kingdom of God.  A Kingdom built on Moses’ foundations, but tuned towards love of neighbour, care for the poor, forgiveness, non-violence.  The Sermon on the Mount is a manifesto if ever there was one.  

But political messages always divide.  Ezra’s audience wept.  Jesus’ canvassers sometimes found a warm welcome—but other times they were hounded out of town, shaking dust off their sandals in frustration.  Politics always presses people’s nerves.  First we ask: what does this mean for me?  My wallet?  My freedom?  Then we think of our families: will Mum get care, will my kids get a fair chance?  Then we zoom out: the library, the river, the future of the planet.  Politics presses every button we have.  

And politicians know it.  Ezra stirs the crowd with history and identity.  Later he plays the purity card—demanding the people divorce their foreign wives.  It’s crude, it’s cruel, but it’s effective.  Politicians have always waved the flag, blamed the outsider, claimed to be defenders of tradition.  Even Jesus, in his way, drew on Israel’s past—but always to widen the story, never to narrow it.  

So what do we do in a season of political speeches, slogans and promises?  How do we separate wheat from chaff?  

For the Christian, there’s really only one yardstick: the political manifesto of Jesus.  Not slogans on a bus, not carefully-spun policy papers, but the Kingdom of God.  

Ask yourself: what would the world look like if the meek really did inherit the earth?  At the moment, 90% of Britain’s land is locked up by government, aristocracy, corporations, the church, the military, the parks.  Only about 10% is available for people like you and me to actually build on.  What would it look like if the mighty were cast down from their seats, yachts, castles, and private jets?  

What if we really took seriously God’s command to Adam and Eve to “tend the garden”?  Would we still be poisoning rivers, razing forests, watching species vanish daily?  

What if we believed Jesus when he said the poor are blessed, that peacemakers should be honoured, that wealth should be shared?  Would we still tolerate food banks in one of the richest nations on earth?  Would we still rank weapons as a higher spending priority than child poverty?  

Now, of course, some will say these are idealisms.  Dreams.  But that’s exactly what politics is: competing dreams.  Competing pictures of the future.  The trick is to test those dreams—not against our wallets alone, not against the flags behind the podium—but against the Kingdom Jesus proclaimed.  

Ezra’s people rediscovered wisdom when the Law was read aloud.  Our task is similar.  To listen again, carefully, to the Scriptures—not as dusty relics or party slogans, but as radical calls to justice and love.  And then to measure every manifesto, every promise, every soundbite against that standard.  

Because anyone who thinks Jesus didn’t have a political message has simply not read the same Bible I read.  As G.K. Chesterton quipped, the tragedy of Christianity is not that it’s been tried and found wanting, but that it’s never really been tried.  

So let’s try.  Let’s take Jesus’ manifesto seriously, not just in the ballot box, but in our daily choices, our wallets, our care for neighbour and creation.  Let’s hear again that call, ancient yet new: the Kingdom of God is at hand.  Amen.

What happened to the Angels?

Texts:  Judges 13.2-7, 24-end & Luke 1.5-25 

Today, we reflect on a theme that runs through both the Old and New Testaments: angels delivering important messages from God. In Luke 1, we hear the story of Zechariah and his wife Elizabeth, who are elderly and childless. In Judges 13, we encounter Manoah and his wife, who also long for a child. In both cases, angels appear with remarkable announcements, setting into motion God’s plan for His people. In Zechariah’s case, the angel foretells the birth of John the Baptist, who will prepare the way for the Messiah. In the story of Manoah, the angel announces the birth of Samson, a deliverer for Israel. And in the New Testament, the angel Gabriel visits Mary, announcing that she will conceive Jesus, the Saviour of the world.

These angelic visitations share a common thread—they disrupt the ordinary course of life, delivering messages that challenge, inspire, and require faith. The angel Gabriel’s visit to Zechariah, for example, was not merely to announce the birth of a child, but to declare the coming of God's salvation. Similarly, the message to Manoah’s wife was not just about a son, but about the deliverer who would begin Israel’s liberation. The message to Mary, though filled with wonder and awe, was a call to faith that would change the course of history. Each of these angelic encounters brings news of transformation, not just for the individuals involved, but for God’s entire redemptive plan.

Angels are not merely symbols of hope or benign figures of comfort. In Scripture, they are powerful agents of God’s will, breaking into human history at crucial moments to announce divine plans. And these encounters are often awe-inspiring. Whether it’s Zechariah, Manoah, or Mary, the response to an angel’s appearance is typically one of fear. “Do not be afraid,” the angel must assure each of them, acknowledging the overwhelming presence of divine messengers. The first words angels speak in the Bible are often to calm the fear that their presence invokes. The angel Gabriel’s visitation to Mary, for instance, comes with the command: “Do not be afraid, Mary, you have found favour with God.” The same words were spoken to Zechariah and Manoah, for angels in Scripture are mighty, awe-inducing figures, not the soft, comforting beings often depicted in popular culture. Nor, as popular culture sometimes suggests, are angels the spirits of our ancestors.  Angels are God’s messengers. They bring divine truth, and that truth often challenges, unsettles, and calls for a response.

But where are the angels today?  If angels no longer appear to us in the same way, how does God communicate with us today? We may not see angels descending from heaven to deliver personal messages – and indeed, angels may be more mythological than real.  But that doesn’t mean God is silent. The ways God communicates with us have shifted from that imagined by the writers of Scripture, but His desire to speak to His people has not changed. 

The most direct way God speaks to us today is through the Scriptures. The Bible, inspired by God, points us to the true Word of God—Jesus Christ. The Scriptures are not in themselves the Word of God, but they are inspired by God, much like a landscape inspires a painter. They invite us into the story of God’s redemptive work, pointing us to Jesus, the Word made flesh, who reveals God’s love and salvation.

The Scriptures guide us in how to live as God’s people, showing us His will and inviting us to trust Him with our lives. Just as Zechariah, Manoah, and Mary received divine messages that shaped the future of God’s people, the Scriptures continue to speak to us today. In them, we find messages of hope, challenge, and transformation that are just as relevant now as they were in biblical times.

Another way God speaks to us is through prayer. In the quiet moments of prayer, God’s voice may not come in a dramatic way, but in a still, small whisper. We may not hear an angel’s trumpet, but we can sense God’s presence in our hearts, through peace, conviction, or unexpected wisdom. Just as Zechariah, Manoah, and Mary had to respond in faith to the angels’ words, we are called to respond in faith when God speaks to us through prayer.

Let us not forget the Holy Spirit. Jesus promised that the Holy Spirit would come and dwell within us, guiding us into all truth. The Spirit is God’s presence with us today, and He speaks to us in ways that are deeply personal. Though we may not experience the dramatic encounters of Zechariah, Manoah, or Mary, we have the Holy Spirit living within us, always prompting, guiding, and empowering us for faithfulness.

Finally, God speaks to us through others. Just as the angel brought a message to Zechariah, Manoah, and Mary, God continues to use people around us—friends, pastors, and fellow believers—to speak into our lives. In times of need, a word of encouragement, a Scripture shared, or counsel from a trusted friend can be the very message God wants us to hear.

We may not encounter angels in the same way today, but God still speaks. The message delivered by the angel to Zechariah, Manoah, and Mary lives on in the promises of the Scriptures, in the still, small voice of the Spirit, in the fellowship of believers, and in the quiet moments of prayer. The question is not whether God still speaks, but whether we are listening.

As we reflect on these stories, I invite you to consider how you are hearing God’s voice in your life. Are you waiting for an angelic visitation, or are you listening for God’s voice through the Scriptures, through prayer, through the Spirit, and through others? God is still speaking. Let us tune our hearts to His voice and respond with faith and obedience.

May God give us the grace to hear His voice clearly and to respond, just as Zechariah, Manoah, and Mary did, trusting that His messages are always filled with hope and purpose.  Amen.