Where is the Kingdom?

TEXTS
Philemon 7–20 

I have indeed received much joy and encouragement from your love, because the hearts of the saints have been refreshed through you, my brother.  For this reason, though I am bold enough in Christ to command you to do your duty, yet I would rather appeal to you on the basis of love—and I, Paul, do this as an old man, and now also as a prisoner of Christ Jesus.  I am appealing to you for my child, Onesimus, whose father I have become during my imprisonment.  

Formerly he was useless to you, but now he is indeed useful both to you and to me.  I am sending him, that is, my own heart, back to you.  I wanted to keep him with me, so that he might be of service to me in your place during my imprisonment for the gospel; but I preferred to do nothing without your consent, in order that your good deed might be voluntary and not something forced.  

Perhaps this is the reason he was separated from you for a while, so that you might have him back for ever, no longer as a slave but more than a slave, a beloved brother—especially to me but how much more to you, both in the flesh and in the Lord.  So if you consider me your partner, welcome him as you would welcome me.  

If he has wronged you in any way, or owes you anything, charge that to my account.  I, Paul, am writing this with my own hand: I will repay it.  I say nothing about your owing me even your own self.  Yes, brother, let me have this benefit from you in the Lord!  Refresh my heart in Christ.

Luke 17.20–25 

Once Jesus was asked by the Pharisees when the kingdom of God was coming, and he answered, ‘The kingdom of God is not coming with things that can be observed; nor will they say, “Look, here it is!” or “There it is!” For, in fact, the kingdom of God is among you.’  

Then he said to the disciples, ‘The days are coming when you will long to see one of the days of the Son of Man, and you will not see it.  They will say to you, “Look there!” or “Look here!” Do not go, do not set off in pursuit.  For as the lightning flashes and lights up the sky from one side to the other, so will the Son of Man be in his day.  But first he must endure much suffering and be rejected by this generation.’

SERMON

Paul’s letter to Philemon is one of those curious little treasures that hides in plain sight.  It’s only one chapter long, tucked away like a note slipped between the pages of a much bigger book.  And that’s what it is — a personal note, handwritten by Paul to his friend Philemon.  It isn’t a theological treatise, or a call to arms, or a grand defence of the faith.  It’s a plea.  A plea on behalf of one man — Onesimus — a runaway slave.

We’re not told the details, but it seems that Onesimus has wronged Philemon in some way — perhaps by stealing from him, or simply by running away.  In the normal order of the Roman world, a runaway slave could expect a beating, branding, or even crucifixion.  But Paul, ever the meddler in social conventions, writes to his wealthy friend with a gentle but devastating subversion: “Perhaps this is the reason he was separated from you for a while, so that you might have him back for ever — no longer as a slave, but more than a slave — a beloved brother.”

And there it is — the Gospel in miniature.  A relationship of power and ownership is transfigured into one of brotherhood and love.  Paul never shouts, “Abolish slavery!” — that would have sounded ridiculous to a first-century ear.  Instead, he plants a time-bomb of grace under the whole structure of oppression.  He quietly suggests that Philemon should see Onesimus not as property but as family.  He even adds, with a wink, “If he’s wronged you in any way, charge it to my account.”  It’s the most elegant guilt-trip in Christian history — and it worked.  Because once you’ve looked your slave in the eye and called him “brother,” the old world cannot go on.

Fast-forward to Luke’s Gospel, and we find Jesus facing his own crowd of Philemons — religious people desperate to know when God’s Kingdom will finally arrive.  “When will it come, Lord?  When will the great day dawn?  When will the Romans be sent packing and righteousness restored?”  Jesus sighs.  “The Kingdom of God is not coming with things that can be observed.  You won’t say, ‘Look, here it is!’ or ‘There it is!’  For the Kingdom of God is among you.”

Among you.  Not in the sky, not over the horizon, not in some golden age of church attendance — but here, now, in the messy business of how we treat one another.  The Kingdom begins the moment Philemon decides to welcome Onesimus not with punishment but with a hug.  It begins when someone with power lays that power down.  It begins in a thousand small acts of release.

And that’s a problem for us, of course.  We would prefer a Kingdom we can see — a proper revolution, with banners and a clear plan.  We’d like God to ride in on a cloud and sort out the mess — preferably before the next election.  But Jesus says no.  The Son of Man, he warns, will be rejected by his own generation.  The Kingdom will not come with fanfare.  It will come like lightning — sudden, illuminating, but only for a moment.  You’ll see flashes of it: in kindness, in courage, in forgiveness.  But blink, and it’s gone.

I think of the long, tragic history of the church and slavery.  How centuries passed before anyone noticed the small spark Paul lit in Philemon’s heart.  For most of Christian history, bishops blessed slave ships, theologians argued about whether Africans had souls, and Christians quoted Paul’s own words — “slaves, obey your masters” — to defend the indefensible.  The Kingdom was among them, but they couldn’t see it.  Their eyes were fixed on the world as it was, not the world as it might be.

And yet — slowly, painfully — the spark grew.  Quakers began to speak out.  Wilberforce thundered in Parliament.  Abolitionists preached that no man can own another because all are one in Christ.  The old world cracked.  It took two thousand years for the Church to catch up with Paul’s little letter — but that’s how the Kingdom works.  It’s less a revolution than an infection — a holy contagion that spreads through hearts until it changes everything.

So, what does that mean for us — sitting comfortably in Havant, or Leigh Park, or wherever our pew happens to be?  Well, perhaps Paul is still writing letters — still whispering from the past: “If there’s anyone you hold in bondage — through resentment, or prejudice, or fear — receive them as you would receive me.”  Who is your Onesimus?  Who have you written off as useless, or unworthy, or just too awkward to love?  The Kingdom begins there — in the decision to see another person as brother or sister rather than threat or burden.

And when will this Kingdom come?  When will it finally arrive in all its glory?  Well — says Jesus — you won’t spot it by reading the headlines or the church statistics.  You’ll find it breaking out in ordinary places: at the foodbank, in a hospice, in a refugee hostel, in the quiet grace of reconciliation between two people who thought they’d never speak again.  The lightning flashes, and for an instant, you see the world as God intends it to be.

So, let’s keep watching for those flashes.  Let’s keep planting those time-bombs of grace.  And when someone asks us, “Where is the Kingdom of God?” — let’s smile, and answer, “It’s among us.  It’s here.  If only we dare to see it.”

Not peace, but fire

Readings:

Romans 6.19–23

I am speaking in human terms because of your natural limitations.  For just as you once presented your members as slaves to impurity and to greater and greater iniquity, so now present your members as slaves to righteousness for sanctification.

When you were slaves of sin, you were free in regard to righteousness.

So what advantage did you then get from the things of which you now are ashamed?  The end of those things is death.

But now that you have been freed from sin and enslaved to God, the advantage you get is sanctification.  The end is eternal life.

For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Luke 12.49–53

‘I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!

I have a baptism with which to be baptised, and what stress I am under until it is completed!

Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth?  No, I tell you, but rather division!

From now on five in one household will be divided, three against two and two against three;

they will be divided: father against son and son against father, mother against daughter and daughter against mother, mother-in-law against her daughter-in-law and daughter-in-law against mother-in-law.’

Sermon

There are moments in life when Jesus says things that make you wince.  “Do you think I have come to bring peace to the earth?  No, I tell you, but rather division!”  It’s not exactly the line you’d expect on a Christmas card, is it?  “Merry Christmas from all of us — may your family be divided against itself, one against the other!”  You can almost imagine the shepherds blinking and saying, “Er, come again, Lord?”

And yet, there it is.  Jesus did not come to pat us all on the head and tell us we’re lovely just as we are.  He came to light a fire.  “I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled.”  He came, in other words, to purify — to burn away pretence, hypocrisy, and cruelty — even when that process makes things rather uncomfortable for the rest of us.

Now, here we are again, in one of those uncomfortable seasons.  The world seems to have become addicted to shouting.  From the far right, we hear the word “woke” spat out like it’s an obscenity.  From the far left, we sometimes hear contempt for anyone who struggles to keep up with the vocabulary of inclusion.  And in the Church, alas, we’ve reached that familiar moment when bishops, in their wisdom, have decided that the best way to move forward… is not to move at all.

It feels, at times, like the liberal, progressive project — that brave attempt to make Christianity about love rather than control — is being buried under an avalanche of angry blogs and carefully worded episcopal statements.  The GAFCON press releases thunder against “heresy” as though the Spanish Inquisition had just been given a new set of robes and a Twitter account.  It’s all very dramatic.

But none of this should really surprise us.  History moves like a pendulum.  Every few decades, society takes a deep breath of freedom — then someone coughs and says, “Too much of that!”  The Reformation was followed by puritan crackdowns.  The Enlightenment was followed by empire.  Civil rights were followed by culture wars.  And so it goes on.  There’s always a backlash when compassion starts to look like it might actually change something.

That’s what Paul is getting at in his letter to the Romans.  “You were slaves to sin,” he says, “but now you’ve been set free — slaves instead to righteousness.”  In other words, freedom isn’t the absence of control; it’s choosing whose control we live under.  The freedom Christ offers isn’t a licence to be smug or cruel or careless.  It’s freedom for something — freedom to love, to serve, to seek justice, to bear with one another’s differences.

But that kind of freedom is threatening to anyone who profits from division.  The moment you start insisting that every person, regardless of gender, orientation, colour or creed, bears the image of God, someone will call you naïve.  The moment you suggest that refugees might actually be neighbours rather than problems, someone will call you woke.  And if you dare to say that God’s love might even include people the church has historically excluded — well, then you’ve gone too far, apparently.

It’s tempting, at such times, to pull the duvet over one’s head and wait for the storm to pass.  But Jesus never offered that option.  He called his disciples to stand in the heat of the fire — to let it purify us, even as we hope it purifies the world.  Bonhoeffer once said that “the church is only the church when it exists for others.”  He paid for that conviction with his life, hanged by those who preferred nationalism to grace.  And yet his faith in the costly freedom of the Gospel remains one of the bright lights of the twentieth century.

So what do we do now, when the air is thick with division?  I think the answer might be simpler than we imagine.  We keep being kind.  We keep showing up.  We keep blessing those who curse us on social media.  We keep offering cups of tea to those who think differently.  We keep telling the truth, gently but firmly, about a God whose love cannot be contained by any faction or frozen by any synod.

And maybe we even keep our sense of humour.  Because nothing deflates the self-righteous quite like laughter.  Jesus himself must have had a mischievous smile when he spoke of fire and division — not because he relished conflict, but because he knew that love, once set alight, can’t be controlled.  It burns through every wall we build, every label we cling to, every hierarchy we invent.

So perhaps the liberal project isn’t dying after all.  Perhaps it’s simply passing through its refining fire.  Perhaps what’s being burned away is our need to win, to persuade, to be right.  And what will remain, when the smoke clears, will be the stubborn, unkillable heart of the Gospel — the wild, tender, inconvenient love of God.

And when that love has done its work — when all our divisions have been named and faced and forgiven — then, and only then, will the world finally know peace.  Not the peace of avoidance or apathy, but the peace that comes when the fire has done its work.

Until then, we keep tending the flame.  With kindness.  With courage.  And yes — with a wink and a grin. Amen.

The Foreigner who got it

 Readings:  2 Kings 5.1-3, 7-15c, Psalm 111, 2 Timothy 2.8-15, Luke 17.11-19

It’s a pleasure — and a bit of a privilege — to be here at the "Cathedral of Leigh Park" for the first time in a long time.  I’ve heard of your reputation for hospitality and energy, so I feel a bit like Naaman arriving at the prophet’s house: not quite sure what to expect, but hopeful that God’s going to do something good here.  Naaman, as we heard, was a mighty general — brave, rich, and admired.  But he had a problem: he was a foreigner with leprosy, and he needed help from the people he’d once dismissed as backward.  When the prophet Elisha told him to wash in the Jordan, Naaman was insulted — “What, in their river?  A muddy ditch?”  But in the end he swallowed his pride, took the plunge, and came out cleansed.  It’s a wonderful story about humility and healing — and about God’s habit of working through the very people we’re most tempted to look down on.

The Bible keeps doing that.  It upends our assumptions about who’s in and who’s out.  Today’s psalm, Psalm 111, is a hymn of pure gratitude — “Great are the works of the Lord; full of majesty and honour is his work.”  It’s the song of someone who knows they’ve received grace they didn’t earn.  And if you listen closely, that’s what Naaman learns, and what the healed leper in the Gospel learns too: the proper response to mercy is gratitude.  You can’t pay God back, but you can say thank you — with your voice, your life, your generosity.

Paul’s letter to Timothy carries the same tune.  “Remember Jesus Christ,” he says, “risen from the dead.”  He’s reminding a young leader that faith isn’t about guarding borders or drawing lines.  It’s about endurance, integrity, and grace.  “Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved,” Paul says — not by heritage or nationality, but by truthfulness and good work.  Faith that is proud, tribal, or exclusionary isn’t faith at all; it’s fear in religious clothing.  Faith that is humble, curious, and grateful — that’s the faith that changes lives.

And then we come to the Gospel — the story of ten lepers crying out to Jesus.  They all receive healing, but only one comes back to give thanks.  And Luke adds the delicious twist: “And he was a Samaritan.”  In other words, a foreigner.  The locals go home cured but ungrateful; the outsider returns praising God.  It’s as though Jesus is saying, “You see?  It’s the stranger who understands what grace really is.”  Those who’ve been on the margins often see more clearly than those of us at the centre.  Maybe that’s because, when you’ve had to fight for a place at the table, you never take your seat for granted.

Which brings us rather close to home.  There’s a lot of talk these days about “foreigners,” about who belongs and who doesn’t.  Some politicians even say they want to send them all “home.”  But Naaman wasn’t sent home — he was welcomed and healed.  The Samaritan wasn’t turned away — he was praised as a model of faith.  Over and over, the Bible tells us that God’s love crosses borders long before we ever built them.  If we take Scripture seriously, we can’t use it to prop up our prejudices.  The God of Israel healed a Syrian soldier.  The Jewish Messiah blessed a Samaritan leper.  The first Christians included Greeks and Ethiopians and Romans and slaves.  It’s as if God’s saying: “Stop drawing lines on my map.”

And it’s not just about politics; it’s about the human heart.  When we divide the world into “us” and “them,” we make our souls smaller.  We become like Naaman before his dip — proud, anxious, and itching for control.  But when we open our hands in gratitude, like the Samaritan who turned back, healing begins.  Gratitude is the opposite of fear.  It’s what happens when we stop clutching our privileges and start noticing our blessings.  And when we do, something remarkable occurs: we start to see the divine image shining in the very people we once called outsiders.

I’ve only just arrived among you, but I can already tell that Leigh Park has its own strong sense of community.  People look out for one another here.  There’s a pride — a good, healthy pride — in the local spirit.  My prayer is that this church, this “cathedral,” will go on being a place where that spirit widens its arms.  A place where no-one is told to “go home,” because everyone is already home in the heart of God.  A place where gratitude is louder than grumbling, and generosity drowns out fear.  A place where Naaman, and the Samaritan, and every weary soul can find healing.

So let’s give thanks — with Psalm 111 — for the great works of the Lord.  Let’s remember, with Paul, that truth and grace can’t be chained.  Let’s learn from Naaman to humble ourselves, and from the Samaritan to say thank you.  And let’s pray that, when Jesus looks at the Cathedral of Leigh Park, he’ll smile and say, “There’s faith here — the kind that heals.”

Flags, Fears and Forgiveness

Readings: 1 Timothy 4.12-end (advice to a young church leader) and Luke 7.36-end (a known sinful woman bathes Jesus' feet) 

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It’s hard to know what to say about the world this week.  A young man, Charlie Kirk, gunned down in cold blood.  A sea of patriots, so-called, marching under banners of fear.  NATO rattling sabres at Russia, and Russia rattling them right back.  And over here, the President of the United States has popped in to remind us that truth, in the mouths of politicians, is always (what shall we say?) a negotiable commodity.

In the middle of all that, we get these two readings.  One from Paul—or at least from someone writing in Paul’s name—encouraging young Timothy not to be cowed by the sneers of the powerful, but to set an example “in speech, in conduct, in love, in faith, in purity.”  And one from Luke’s Gospel, where a woman’s tears of repentance are turned into a banquet for Jesus’ feet.  Two different texts, but both with the same quiet insistence: don’t just copy the noise of the world; show another way.

Simon the Pharisee sees a woman whose reputation is mud.  He sees her sins, but not her sorrow.  He sees the scandal, but not the love.  Jesus, on the other hand, receives her gifts without condition.  He allows her to touch him, even though she’s unclean by the law.  He accepts the strange, uncomfortable truth she brings: that forgiveness is real, and love is the right response.

Now, what would happen if we practised that same discernment in the world around us?  Because if I’m honest, it’s all too easy to look at a march of 150,000 flag-waving men and women and see only the ugliness—anger, nationalism, slogans painted in blood-red letters.  And speaking of flags—have you noticed the new campaign to hang them from every lamp-post in the country?  Apparently, that’s how you prove you love your nation.  Trouble is, after a week of rain, traffic fumes, and seagull droppings, they end up looking less like proud symbols of heritage and more like dogs marking their patch.  A little territorial, a little tatty, and mostly ignored by passers-by.  If that’s patriotism, I don't recognise it. 

But Jesus insists that beneath the surface there is always a story.  Beneath the roar of the crowd there is a fear.  Beneath the anger there is often grief.  Beneath the lies there is still a human being, aching for dignity and belonging.

We don’t excuse hatred.  We don’t baptise lies.  But we try to see the person behind the posture.  Because if God’s grace could reach into the life of a woman everyone else despised, then God’s grace can reach even into a shouting mob, even into a blustering president, even into a dangerous tyrant.  And yes—even into us.

That’s where Timothy comes in.  “Let no one despise your youth,” Paul writes.  In other words: don’t let the world set the terms of the debate.  Don’t be cowed by those who are louder, older, angrier.  Your task is not to match their volume but to model a different way.  Speech, conduct, love, faith, purity.  Not power, slogans, sabres, lies.

I think that’s where our hope lies.  We can’t silence the marchers, or rewrite the manifestos of world leaders.  We can’t end war with a snap of our fingers.  But we can choose how we live, how we speak, how we listen.  We can choose whether to sneer at our enemies or to try to understand them.  And understanding, in the Kingdom of God, is often the first step to love.

Because here’s the truth: every so-called patriot who marched through the streets carries fears they can barely name.  Every politician who blusters on the world stage has wounds and insecurities that drive them.  Every general who rattles a sabre is afraid of losing control.  And every one of us, too, is a bundle of half-formed knowledge, fake truths, and borrowed fears.  Yet Christ meets us in that mess.  He lets us weep on his feet.  He receives our shabby gifts.  And he calls us to receive others the same way.

So yes, it is a dangerous world this week.  But it is also God’s world.  And the Kingdom still creeps in wherever forgiveness is offered, wherever understanding is attempted, wherever enemies are listened to instead of shouted down.  That is our vocation.  To be a people who look beneath the surface.  To be a community where the broken can bring their gifts.  To be disciples who model a better way.

That, at least, is something Charlie Kirk will never again have the chance to do.  But we who remain—we can.  We can set an example.  In speech.  In conduct.  In love.  In faith.  In purity.  Not because it’s easy.  But because that’s what Jesus did when a sinner knelt at his feet, and what Jesus still does when sinners—like us—kneel before him.  Amen.

Dinghies, Dukes and Dinner parties

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pointing the finger...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Becoming the Face of Christ

Texts:  2 Corinthians 3.15 – 4.1, 3–6 and Matthew 5.20–26

If you’ve ever tried to explain the state of your phone to some tech-savvy teenager, you’ll understand what Paul is getting at in today’s epistle. “We have this treasure in jars of clay,” he says elsewhere — but perhaps he should have said “in smartphones with cracked screens.” There’s glory in it — blazing, illuminating glory — but the battery’s always low, the screen's smudged, and the message only gets through if someone is really paying attention.

In this passage from 2 Corinthians, Paul is dealing with veils — not bridal veils, but spiritual ones. He’s writing to a community trying to squint through the mystery of God. “To this day,” he says, “a veil lies over their hearts.” But — here’s the good news — “where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.” The veil is lifted, and we see. We see — not because we’re clever, or especially holy, or better than anyone else — but because the Spirit blew through the room and gave us sight.  

Now, Pentecost, just behind us, was one great gale of Spirit. Tongues of fire, mighty winds, terrified apostles suddenly speaking with the confidence of archangels. But Paul reminds us that Pentecost doesn’t end. The Spirit hasn’t packed up her bags and gone back to Heaven. She’s still breathing down the corridors of the Church — occasionally setting fire to the upholstery.

But what is it we are meant to see when the veil is lifted? Is it a set of doctrinal propositions? A new way of hating the people we’re supposed to love, but with incense and a cassock? Or is it what Paul calls “the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ”?

Ah yes. The face. Not the rules, not the religion, not the law. The face. The face that turned to the leper. The face that wept at the tomb of Lazarus. The face that flickered in resurrection light by the lakeshore. That’s what we are meant to gaze upon with unveiled faces — not with judgement, but transformation.

And it is in this light that we turn to Matthew’s Gospel. Oh dear. You know you’re in trouble when Jesus starts a sentence with “You have heard it said…” and then immediately raises the stakes.

“You have heard that it was said to those of ancient times, ‘You shall not murder’… But I say to you that if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment.”

Well that’s no fun. Can’t we just be angry and righteous and fume quietly in our pews like decent churchgoers? But Jesus will not let us off so easily. He digs beneath the letter of the law and reveals the Spirit.  It’s not just about murder — it’s about the thousand little deaths we deal with our words. Don’t murder people’s joy with sarcasm. Don’t assassinate their character with gossip. Don’t strangle the possibility of reconciliation by letting a feud ferment for 20 years — like a bottle of wine that’s turned to vinegar.

Jesus, in his typically inconvenient way, insists that the kingdom begins in the heart. You might appear a shining saint on the outside —halo and everything — but if you’re seething with contempt, muttering “You fool” under your breath, then your candle’s blown out before it got to the altar.

This is dangerous stuff. Because it invites us not to control others — but to examine ourselves. The Spirit of Pentecost gives us boldness — but not to clobber the world with certainties. The Spirit gives us boldness to forgive. To admit wrong. To take the first step in reconciliation, even when the other person is still being an absolute horror.

This is not weakness. It is courage. It is prophecy. It is resurrection life breaking in, here and now.

So what do we do with these words in the week after Pentecost? We could start small. A phone call to the estranged brother or sister to whom we haven’t spoken in years. A prayer for the politician you cannot bear to watch. A conversation you’ve been avoiding for too long, carried out — at last — in the light, not the shadow.

We could remember that the Church was not founded on theological clarity, or bureaucratic elegance, or even moral purity. It was founded in a room full of frightened people, visited by wind and flame. The Spirit did not ask them to take an exam. She came anyway.

And the same Spirit now lifts the veil — not so that we can stand around saying, “Isn’t that a nice bit of glory?” — but so that we can reflect it. So that we, too, can become the face of Christ to one another.  Even to those we’d rather glare at across the top of our pews.

Because here’s the thing. In the end, the Christian faith is not about being right. It’s about being transformed. And transformation doesn’t happen when we dig trenches and hurl theological grenades. It happens when we dare to love as Christ loves — fiercely, foolishly, and without a checklist.

So let the veil fall. Let the anger fall. Let the Spirit breathe. And may we — unveiled, unarmed, and utterly unqualified — reflect the glory of God, with cracked screens, smudged lenses, and hearts turned toward mercy.  Amen.

Who is in and who is out of God's kingdom?

Texts: Acts 15.7–21 and John 15.9–11

John 15:9-11

As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love. I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete.

Let’s be honest. For too long, the Church has been obsessed with who’s in and who’s out. It’s been a bouncer at the cosmic nightclub, checking IDs, squinting at dress codes, making sure no “undesirables” slip past. We’ve spent centuries drawing lines in the sand, building fences, and crafting intricate theological obstacle courses. All in the name of God, of course.  But what about Jesus? What did he say?

 Before we answer that questions, let’s look first at Acts 15. The Jerusalem Council. A bunch of earnest, well-meaning folks, scratching their heads, arguing, debating. “Do these Gentile newbies need to be circumcised? Do they need to follow all the old rules?” A serious question, right? For them, it was everything. Purity. Identity. Who belongs to God’s chosen people?

 And then Peter stands up. Old Peter, impulsive Peter, the one who denied Jesus three times and then wept bitterly. He speaks with an authority born of grace, not rules. “God made no distinction,” he says. “He purified their hearts by faith.” No hoops. No hurdles. Just faith. Just love.

 And James, wise James, quotes the prophet Amos: “that all other peoples may seek the Lord.” All peoples. Not just the ones who look like us, talk like us, or believe exactly like us. Not just the ones who fit our carefully constructed theological boxes.

 They landed on a few practical guidelines. Don’t eat sacrificed meat, don’t eat blood, don’t eat strangled animals, and keep yourselves from sexual immorality. Practical stuff for living together, not obscure rituals for proving your worthiness. It was about making space, not building walls. It was about loving acceptance. It was about being the kingdom, not just debating its entrance requirements.

 Now, let’s turn to John 15. Jesus. Our Jesus. The one who walked among us, ate with outcasts, touched the untouchable. What was big message? Was it a detailed blueprint of salvation mechanics? A forensic analysis of sin and atonement?

 No. He says, plain as day, “Abide in my love.” Not "Understand the intricacies of my atonement." Not "Debate the timing of my return." "Abide in my love." And how do we do that? “If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love.”

 And what are his commandments? Are they the 613 intricate laws, that the Pharisees loved? No. He boiled it down to two. Love God. Love your neighbour as yourself. And then he gave us a new one: “Love one another as I have loved you.”  This is not rocket science, people. It’s heart science.

 For too long, we’ve made Christianity about believing the right things about Jesus, rather than living the way Jesus lived. We’ve majored in theological propositions and minored in compassion. We’ve built magnificent cathedrals to complex doctrines, while the hungry still starve, the lonely still yearn, and the marginalized still suffer.

 Yes, Christian tradition rightly points to the cross. Jesus’ ultimate act of self-giving love. A profound mystery. A powerful symbol of radical grace. But Jesus himself, in his own ministry, emphasized how we should live. He showed us the way. He is the way. The way of radical, extravagant, inclusive love.

 So, here’s the rub. Are we going to keep arguing over who’s in and who’s out, just like those earnest folks at the Jerusalem Council almost did?  Or are we going to follow their lead, and Jesus’ lead, and focus on expanding the circle?

 Are we going to get bogged down in theological gymnastics, or are we going to get on with the business of loving? Loving our God with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength. And loving our neighbour, all our neighbours, especially the ones society labels as “other” or “stranger,” just as Jesus loved us.

 This is where the joy is. This is where the abundant life is found. Not in proving our righteousness, but in pouring out our love. Not in being right, but in being light. 

 So, let’s go forth, not as bouncers, but as welcomers. Not as gatekeepers, but as bridge-builders. Let’s live out Jesus’ commandments of love. Let’s abide in his love. And in doing so, let the joy of the Lord be our strength, and a beacon to a world desperate for true, unconditional love. 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)

 

That Land Promise Has Expired: Jesus, Abraham, and What God Requires Now

Texts:  Genesis 17.3-9 and John 8.51-end

We’ve got some hefty texts to consider, today.   Genesis 17 and John 8. Texts about promises, identity, and how we live, echoing right into the troubles of our own time.

In Genesis, Abram hits the deck before God, who makes a stunning promise: nations, kings, and land. Yes, that land in Canaan, promised as an "everlasting possession." Everlasting.  That’s a heck of a long time.  We've all heard these verses used, haven't we? We’ve heard them pulled out to justify claims on that specific patch of earth, right up to the tragic conflicts we see today between the patches of the land called Israel and Pallestine. "God gave it to us, forever!" the argument goes.  

But hold your horses. Verse 9 adds a crucial condition: "As for you, you shall keep my covenant..." This wasn't a no-strings-attached giveaway. It was conditional. Keep the covenant – love God, love neighbour, live justly – then the land promise holds. Think of it like getting the keys to a company car – abuse the rules, you lose the privilege.

So, how did Abraham’s descendants do? Let's be brief: the rest of the Hebrew Bible shows a rather patchy record. Bless their hearts, it wasn't exactly a stellar record, was it? Golden calves, dodgy kings ignoring prophets, worshipping other gods, injustice... the covenant was broken, repeatedly. If the promise depended on faithfulness (and faithfulness was frequently absent) what happens to the "everlasting" part? It suggests the promise, at least concerning that specific land, might be forfeit. Waving Genesis 17 today as an unbreakable divine deed ignores the crucial small print about obedience. It certainly challenges using it to justify violence or dispossession now.

Now, fast forward many centuries to John 8. Jesus is sparring with the religious leaders again. Honestly, sometimes reading John’s gospel is like watching a boxing match!  He declares, "Very truly, I tell you, whoever keeps my word will never see death." The leaders are outraged. “Woah!  Back up the donkey there. Abraham died! The prophets died! Who do you think you are?" They accuse him of having a demon – their usual response to baffling claims.

Jesus doesn't back down. In fact, he doubles down.  He says Abraham saw his day and rejoiced, and then delivers the knockout punch: "Very truly, I tell you, before Abraham was, I AM."  Boom!

I AM. Not just 'I existed before'. He uses God's own name from the burning bush, YHWH. He's claiming equality with God.  John's Gospel is making one of his more startling assertions: Jesus (according to John) is the God who made that covenant with Abraham. No wonder they reached for stones – it was ultimate blasphemy to them!  It would be like me walking into Canterbury and claiming to be Jesus.

Do you see the connection? The Genesis promise was conditional on keeping God's covenant – the Old Testament as we call it.  But humanity struggled. Then Jesus, the great "I AM," arrives and offers a new promise, a New Testament - not of land, but of eternal life itself. And the condition? "Whoever keeps my word."

This new way, centred on keeping his word, echoes the conditionality of the old covenant.  But focuses it now onto Jesus’ word. But what is his word?   We can boil it down to the The Great Commandment:  essentially love God, love neighbour – which means love enemy, welcome the stranger, seek justice, forgive endlessly, live humbly. 

This brings us to a crucial point, one that often gets lost in some corners of Christianity. We sometimes get terribly tangled up in doctrines about Jesus, particularly intricate theories about how his death saves us – the substitutionary atonement idea, that God needed a blood sacrifice and Jesus was it. Now, the cross is central, undeniably powerful, mysterious. But listen to Jesus himself in John's Gospel! He doesn't say, "Whoever believes the correct theory about my death will never see death." He says, "Whoever keeps my word."

This should give us pause about focusing only on belief in Jesus's death as the ticket to heaven. Keeping Jesus’ word – is about discipleship. It’s about action. It’s about letting his teachings permeate our lives and change how we behave.   As the troublesome but ever-practical letter of Jesus’ earthly brother James reminds us, "Faith without works is dead." Lifeless. A car without an engine. 

You see, Jesus seems far more concerned with whether we live his teachings than merely signing off on a doctrinal statement. Keeping his word isn't about perfection; it's about the direction of our lives, the active striving to embody his love, forgiveness, and justice. You can say you believe Jesus is Lord until you’re blue in the face, but if you’re not actually doing the stuff he said – loving, forgiving, seeking justice, caring for the poor, welcoming the stranger – then according to Jesus himself, and his brother James, your faith isn't firing on all cylinders. To continue the car metaphor, it’s like owning a Ferrari but never taking it out of the garage. It looks nice, but what’s the point?

So, the journey is from a conditional land promise, arguably broken, to the arrival of the Promiser Himself, the great I AM. He offers not territory, but life eternal. The condition remains faithfulness, but now defined as actively keeping his word – living out his commands of love and justice.

So, my friends, the challenge for us today is to embrace the radical, life-altering promise offered by the one who is before all things. It’s about getting our hands dirty with the messy, demanding, beautiful work of keeping his word – loving God, loving our neighbours (all of them, no exceptions!), and finding in that active, living faith, the promise of life that truly never ends. Amen.

Enemies of Christ

Texts: Philippians 3.17 – 4.1

Luke 13.31-35

Today’s readings invite us to wrestle with uncomfortable truths. Paul, that relentless apostle, writes to the Philippians, "Join together in following my example…for many live as enemies of the cross of Christ. Their destiny is destruction, their god is their stomach, and their glory is in their shame. Their minds are set on earthly things." And then, in contrast, a clarion call: "But our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Saviour from there, the Lord Jesus Christ, who, by the power that enables him to bring everything under his control, will transform our lowly bodies so that they will be like his glorious body."   

Let us not shy away from the starkness of this language. "Enemies of the cross." It echoes, does it not, the chilling threat delivered to Jesus in Luke's gospel, "Get away from here, Herod wants to kill you." Herod, the puppet king, the embodiment of earthly power, fearful of a truth that threatened his fragile grasp on control. Herod, who sought to silence the voice of justice, the voice of love, the voice of God. We see then, the same desire to silence truth and love, in both readings.

But who are these "enemies of Christ" that Paul weeps over? Are they the Herods of our time: the tyrants and dictators? Yes, in part. But Paul's gaze is broader, more penetrating. He speaks of those whose "god is their stomach," (which is a challenge to me, very personally!) whose "glory is in their shame," whose "minds are set on earthly things." He speaks of those who prioritize material gain, power, and prestige over the radical love and self-sacrifice that Jesus embodied.

These "enemies of Christ" are not always those who openly reject Jesus. In fact, they very well might be those who claim to follow him, but whose actions betray their words. They might be those who use the language of faith to justify hatred, division, and exclusion. They might be those who cling to rigid doctrines and condemn those who dare to question, those who refuse to see the image of God in those who are different from them.

Think of the politicians who demonize immigrants, who build walls instead of bridges, who peddle fear and division for political gain. Think of the corporations that exploit workers and destroy the environment in the pursuit of profit. Think of the religious leaders who preach intolerance and condemn those who love differently, who live differently, who believe differently. These, friends, are the Herods and the "enemies of Christ" in our midst. (But let us also remember, that we do also see examples of politicians who champion justice, corporations that prioritize sustainability, and religious leaders who promote inclusivity.)

And how do we respond? Do we meet their hatred with hatred? Do we return their condemnation with condemnation? Paul, echoing the very heart of Jesus, calls us to a different path. He calls us to imitate Christ, to follow his example of love, compassion, and forgiveness. He calls us to remember that our citizenship is not in the kingdoms of this world, but in the kingdom of God, a kingdom where love reigns supreme.

Jesus, facing Herod's threat, wept over Jerusalem, lamenting, "Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing!" He wept not with anger, but with sorrow, with a deep and abiding love for those who rejected him. He saw their fear, their blindness, their self-destructive path, and his heart broke.   

We too must weep for those who are lost, for those who are blinded by power and greed, for those who are trapped in cycles of hatred and violence. We must weep, but we must also act. We must speak truth to power, challenge injustice, and stand in solidarity with the oppressed. We must be the hands and feet of Christ, extending love and compassion to all, even to those who seek to harm us.

Paul reminds us that we eagerly await a Saviour who will transform our lowly bodies into his glorious body. Notice this, though. It’s easy to read Paul’s words and to assume that he’s talking about a future heaven, in resurrected bodies. That’s the standard way that this verse is understood. But I want to offer a different take on Paul’s words. We can also read these words not as a promise of escape from the world, but a promise of transformation within the world. Some may interpret these verses as solely referring to a future resurrection. However, I believe that Paul's message also speaks to the transformative power of Christ in our present lives.

The life of a Christian is one of sacrifice, just as it was for Jesus. By offering our lowly, yes fat, unhealthy, maybe elderly, even sick bodies to the transforming work of Christ, we are promised that Christ will draw us into his body. We become caught up with others, in the work of Christ. Our individual acts of kindness, our struggles for justice, are not isolated events. They are woven together, creating a tapestry of love that transforms the world. We offer our weakness, and Christ transforms it into strength – by binding our feeble effort with the efforts of all the friends of Christ throughout the world. This, ultimately, is a resurrection promise. It is a promise that love will ultimately triumph over hate, that justice will prevail over injustice, that life will overcome death.

We are called to be agents of that transformation, to be living examples of the love of Christ in a world that desperately needs it. We are called to embody the radical inclusivity of Jesus, to welcome the stranger, to feed the hungry, to heal the sick, to comfort the broken hearted. We are called to be a community of love, a beacon of hope, a testament to the power of the gospel to transform lives and change the world.

So, let’s do it. Let’s follow Paul's exhortation. Let us join together in following the example of Christ, keeping our eyes on those who live as he did. We will not be afraid to challenge the "enemies of Christ" in our world and even in our community, but we will do so with love and compassion. We will remember that even they, like us, are children of God, worthy of redemption. We commit ourselves, however, to live as citizens of heaven, bringing the kingdom of God to earth, one act of love, one act of justice, one act of forgiveness at a time. Let us become the change we wish to see in the world, and in doing so, reflect the glorious image of Christ.