Latimer and Ridley - The Trouble with Tribes

 Thursday 16 October

Commemoration of Nicholas Ridley and Hugh Latimer, Reformation Martyrs, 1555
Readings: Romans 3.21–30; Luke 11.47–end

Romans 3.21–30

Now, apart from law, the righteousness of God has been disclosed, and is attested by the law and the prophets, the righteousness of God through faith in Jesus Christ for all who believe.  For there is no distinction, since all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God; they are now justified by his grace as a gift, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus, whom God put forward as a sacrifice of atonement by his blood, effective through faith.  He did this to show his righteousness, because in his divine forbearance he had passed over the sins previously committed; it was to prove at the present time that he himself is righteous and that he justifies the one who has faith in Jesus.

Then what becomes of boasting?  It is excluded.  By what law?  By that of works?  No, but by the law of faith.  For we hold that a person is justified by faith apart from works prescribed by the law.  Or is God the God of Jews only?  Is he not the God of Gentiles also?  Yes, of Gentiles also, since God is one; and he will justify the circumcised on the ground of faith and the uncircumcised through that same faith.

Luke 11.47–end

Woe to you!  For you build the tombs of the prophets whom your ancestors killed.  So you are witnesses and approve of the deeds of your ancestors; for they killed them, and you build their tombs.  Therefore also the Wisdom of God said, ‘I will send them prophets and apostles, some of whom they will kill and persecute’, so that this generation may be charged with the blood of all the prophets shed since the foundation of the world, from the blood of Abel to the blood of Zechariah, who perished between the altar and the sanctuary.  Yes, I tell you, it will be charged against this generation.

Woe to you lawyers!  For you have taken away the key of knowledge; you did not enter yourselves, and you hindered those who were entering.  When he went outside, the scribes and the Pharisees began to be very hostile towards him and to cross-examine him about many things, lying in wait for him, to catch him in something he might say. 

Sermon

 It’s hard, sometimes, to make sense of the Reformation.  To the outsider, it can sound like a particularly messy parish meeting that got wildly out of hand.  Someone moved the candles, someone else objected to the vestments, and before you know it, bishops are being burned in Oxford.  There’s a moral somewhere in that, I think.

Today we remember Nicholas Ridley, Bishop of London, and Hugh Latimer, Bishop of Worcester — two brave, exasperating, faithful men.  They were both brilliant scholars and passionate preachers.  And both were so absolutely certain that they were right, that they were willing to die for it.  Which they did, on a cold October morning in 1555, bound to a stake outside Balliol College.  “Be of good cheer, Master Ridley,” said Latimer, as the fire was lit, “for we shall this day light such a candle, by God’s grace, in England as I trust shall never be put out.”  Stirring stuff.  And yet, a small part of me can’t help wondering whether God looked down from heaven that day and sighed: ‘Oh for goodness’ sake — not again.’

Because the thing is, our species has an almost bottomless appetite for tribal conflict, especially over ideas.  We form our tribes — theological, political, social — and we defend them as fiercely as any football hooligan.  The Reformation was, among other things, a clash of theological tribes.  On one side, Rome — with her centuries of accumulated tradition and authority.  On the other, Reformers who longed to strip faith back to the simplicity of Scripture and grace.  Both camps were full of conviction.  Both claimed the moral high ground.  And both, alas, were sometimes so busy defending their own purity that they forgot the point of the Gospel — which, as Paul reminds us today, is that ‘there is no distinction… for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.’

There’s the rub.  No distinction.  No special club.  No holy tribe that has the monopoly on God.  For Paul, writing to a church already divided between Jewish and Gentile factions, that was dynamite.  God’s grace, he insists, is poured out through Christ for all who believe.  No one can claim superiority.  No one can say, ‘My badge, my doctrine, my ritual makes me holier than you.’  The Reformation didn’t quite hear that bit.  Nor, I fear, do we.

Fast-forward five centuries, and the tribal drums are still beating.  In one corner, Christians, Jews, and Muslims — the monotheistic cousins, all convinced they worship the one true God, and yet somehow still managing to glare suspiciously at one another across the family table.  Each faith has its radicals and its reformers, its moderates and mystics.  And within each, there are internal squabbles that make the Reformation look almost polite.  Sunni and Shia.  Orthodox and Reform.  Evangelical and Catholic.  Human beings seem to have an infinite capacity for building fences inside the same field.

And then there’s the Anglican Communion — our own slightly eccentric extended family.  We’ve got provinces that bless same-sex couples and others that excommunicate them; dioceses that dance in the aisles and others that genuflect in Latin.  ‘Different integrities,’ we call them, which is a beautifully Anglican way of saying ‘we don’t agree, but we’d rather not fall out at the coffee morning.’  Yet underneath all that gentle language, there’s a real question about identity.  Which tribe do I belong to?  Evangelical?  Liberal?  Catholic?  Inclusive?  Conservative?  The labels multiply, and before long we’re back to shouting across the barricades.

The problem is that once we’ve found our tribe, it becomes part of who we are.  Our friends share our theology.  Our bookshelves reinforce our assumptions.  Our Twitter feeds are echo chambers of affirmation.  And to step outside that — to question our tribe, or worse, to move from one camp to another — feels like treason.  It’s not just a change of mind.  It’s a change of self.  And the cost can be enormous: ridicule, suspicion, even exile.  Few people have the courage for it.  Most of us prefer to stay safely where we are, grumbling about the other side.  It’s more comfortable that way.

Yet Christ, in today’s Gospel, has little patience for comfort.  He condemns those who build the tombs of the prophets — the grand memorials to those who challenged the status quo — while ignoring their message.  ‘You’re just like your ancestors,’ he says.  ‘They killed the prophets, and now you honour their graves.’  Latimer and Ridley were prophets of their age, challenging a church that had lost its way.  But let’s not fool ourselves.  If they turned up today, they’d probably annoy us just as much.  Prophets always do.  That’s their job.

And maybe that’s the heart of it.  True faith — whether Christian, Jewish, Muslim, or Anglican — always involves the risk of stepping beyond the tribe.  It’s the courage to say, ‘Perhaps my people are wrong.’  Or, at least, ‘Perhaps there’s more truth to be found beyond my comfort zone.’  That’s terrifying, because it threatens our belonging.  But it’s also the only way grace ever gets a foothold.  Grace begins where the tribe ends — where we stop defending our purity and start admitting our humanity.

So perhaps that’s what Ridley and Latimer can still teach us.  Not to glorify their particular opinions, nor to romanticise their deaths, but to recognise their courage: the courage to think, to question, to act according to conscience, even when it cost them everything.  They weren’t perfect — no one is when the fire’s lit.  But they were brave enough to risk their place in the tribe for the sake of truth as they saw it.  And maybe that’s the candle Latimer spoke of — not the light of Protestantism over Popery, but the light of conscience over conformity, of grace over belonging, of truth over tribe.

In a world still fractured by creeds and causes, that candle needs trimming and lighting again.  And perhaps — just perhaps — the way we keep it burning is by daring to listen to one another, across our barricades and our doctrines, until we discover that the God we thought was ours alone has been quietly loving everyone all along.  Amen

Saints, Sausage Rolls and the Spirit of Truth

On the Feast of St Birinus

First Reading: Ecclesiastes 2.12–25

So I turned to consider wisdom and madness and folly; for what can the one do who comes after the king? Only what has already been done.  Then I saw that wisdom excels folly as light excels darkness.  The wise have eyes in their head, but fools walk in darkness.  Yet I perceived that the same fate befalls all of them.  Then I said to myself, ‘What happens to the fool will happen to me also; why then have I been so very wise?’ And I said to myself that this also is vanity.  For there is no enduring remembrance of the wise or of fools, seeing that in the days to come all will have been long forgotten.  How can the wise die just like fools? So I hated life, because what is done under the sun was grievous to me; for all is vanity and a chasing after wind.

I hated all my toil in which I had toiled under the sun, seeing that I must leave it to those who come after me – and who knows whether they will be wise or foolish? Yet they will be master of all for which I toiled and used my wisdom under the sun.  This also is vanity.  So I turned and gave my heart up to despair concerning all the toil of my labours under the sun, because sometimes one who has toiled with wisdom and knowledge and skill must leave all to be enjoyed by another who did not toil for it.  This also is vanity and a great evil.  What do mortals get from all the toil and strain with which they toil under the sun? For all their days are full of pain, and their work is a vexation; even at night their minds do not rest.  This also is vanity.

There is nothing better for mortals than to eat and drink, and find enjoyment in their toil.  This also, I saw, is from the hand of God; for apart from him who can eat or who can have enjoyment? For to the one who pleases him God gives wisdom and knowledge and joy; but to the sinner he gives the work of gathering and heaping, only to give to one who pleases God.  This also is vanity and a chasing after wind.

Gospel Reading: John 16.1–15

I have said these things to you to keep you from stumbling.  They will put you out of the synagogues.  Indeed, the hour is coming when those who kill you will think that by doing so they are offering worship to God.  And they will do this because they have not known the Father or me.  But I have said these things to you so that when their hour comes you may remember that I told you about them.

I did not say these things to you from the beginning, because I was with you.  But now I am going to him who sent me; yet none of you asks me, ‘Where are you going?’ But because I have said these things to you, sorrow has filled your hearts.  Nevertheless I tell you the truth: it is to your advantage that I go away, for if I do not go away, the Advocate will not come to you; but if I go, I will send him to you.  And when he comes, he will prove the world wrong about sin and righteousness and judgment: about sin, because they do not believe in me; about righteousness, because I am going to the Father and you will see me no longer; about judgment, because the ruler of this world has been condemned.

I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now.  When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth; for he will not speak on his own, but will speak whatever he hears, and he will declare to you the things that are to come.  He will glorify me, because he will take what is mine and declare it to you.  All that the Father has is mine.  For this reason I said that he will take what is mine and declare it to you.

Sermon

It’s odd, isn’t it, when you hear words of Scripture that don’t sound terribly religious at all.  Ecclesiastes says, “What do mortals get from all the toil and strain with which they toil under the sun? For all their days are full of pain, and their work is a vexation.”  That’s not the kind of verse you’ll find printed on a Christian fridge magnet.  It’s brutally honest.  Vanity of vanities, says the preacher.  The wise man dies just like the fool.  

And yet, Ecclesiastes smuggles in something important.  If all our striving comes to dust, then perhaps the best we can do is enjoy the gifts God gives in the moment.  Eat, drink, find joy in our work.  Because joy is a gift, not a possession.

Now, compare that with Jesus in John’s Gospel.  He doesn’t sugar-coat life either.  Jesus warns his followers; “They will put you out of the synagogues.  Indeed, the hour is coming when whoever kills you will think they are offering service to God.”  This is not a recruiting slogan.  You can’t imagine it printed on a poster outside St Faith’s.  “Join the Church: guaranteed persecution and probable death.”  And yet, he says, “When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth.”

So Ecclesiastes and John agree: life is tough, often unfair, sometimes lethal.  But alongside that grim honesty is something else.  God gives joy in the midst of futility.  God gives the Spirit in the midst of suffering.  And that brings us to Birinus.

Birinus was not a likely candidate to win fame.  He wasn’t born into a great dynasty.  He wasn’t a general or a politician.  He was a monk from Lombardy who decided, somewhat rashly, to set off for pagan England in the 630s.  His original plan was to head north, beyond the Saxons, to convert the barbarian tribes.  But he never made it.  He landed in the South—Oxford, Berkshire, Winchester—territory of the West Saxons.  Wessex.  He stayed, he preached, and astonishingly, the West Saxon king, Cynegils, was baptised, right there in the Thames at Dorchester.  Birinus, a foreigner, convinced a king.  That’s not bad for a wandering monk with a dodgy Latin accent.

But let’s not romanticise it.  Birinus didn’t arrive in a leafy Hampshire postcard.  He arrived in a violent, fractured society, riven by warlords and superstition.  He had to navigate the politics of powerful kings, and preach a Gospel that sounded ridiculous.  One God?  A crucified Saviour?  Eternal life?  It made no sense to the Saxon mind.

And yet he persisted.  Not by clever strategy alone, and not because he had all the answers, but because the Spirit of truth was at work.  The Spirit, as Jesus promised, takes what is Christ’s and declares it to us—again and again, across cultures and centuries.

Which makes Birinus a particularly good saint for us to remember, because he reminds us that holiness doesn’t always happen where you expect.  Sometimes God plonks you in Hampshire and says, “Yes, here will do nicely.”

Picture him, if you will, turning up in modern Hampshire.  A wiry Italian monk, stepping off the train at Havant.  He looks around for the pagan Saxons he’s meant to convert, and instead finds a Greggs, a kebab shop, a Poundland and a drunk man shouting after a bus.  Would he despair?  Perhaps.  Or perhaps he’d roll up his sleeves, grab a sausage roll, and start talking to whoever would listen.

Or imagine him on a Sunday morning in Havant High Street, trying to preach the Gospel between the perfume counters of Boots and the smell of Macdonald’s burgers.  “Repent and believe the good news,” he cries, while shoppers hurry off with discount trainers, and someone asks him if he bought his walking staff at TK Maxx.  He’d be baffled, of course, but then he was baffled back in Dorchester too.  The Gospel has never been an easy sell.

And yet—somehow, against all odds, Birinus converted a king.  He baptised Cynegils in the Thames at Dorchester in Oxfordshire.  That was the beginning of the Church in Wessex.  From that watery moment flowed Winchester Cathedral, Chichester, Portsmouth, Havant.  All of it traces back to an immigrant monk who thought he was in the wrong place but turned out to be exactly where God needed him.

So don’t despise the day of small beginnings.  Birinus didn’t set out to be “the Apostle to Wessex.”  He just did the next faithful thing.  Preached, taught, baptised, trusted the Spirit.  He died, like the wise man and the fool of Ecclesiastes.  But unlike the fool, he found joy in God’s gift.  And the Spirit of truth carried his work far beyond his own life.

Which leaves us with a question.  If Birinus could find God’s purpose in seventh-century Hampshire, can we find it today?  In our discount stores, supermarkets, harbours, housing estates?  Or do we convince ourselves that God is only really at work somewhere else, in somebody else’s story?

The Spirit of truth still moves through these streets.  This is sainted space, holy ground.  The joy of God is still offered, even in our sense of futility.  Birinus is proof that even in a land of pagans—or Greggs pasties—God can plant a seed that will change a kingdom.

So let’s not look down on our own patch of ground.  We live, after all, in the land of a saint.  Amen.

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

Feast of St Augustine of Hippo

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

Matthew 23.8–12

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

Sermon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Radical Forgiveness in a Wounded World

14 August 2025 – Memorial of St. Maximilian Kolbe

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

First Reading – Psalm 114 (NRSV Anglicized)

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

Judah became God’s sanctuary, Israel his dominion.

The sea looked and fled; Jordan turned back.

The mountains skipped like rams, the hills like lambs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sermon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who will the next Archbishop of Canterbury be?

Readings:  Romans 14.7-12 and Luke 15.1-10 (the parable of the lost coin/lost sheep)

On the Feast of St Leonard and the Commemoration of ++William Temple

St Augustine of Canterbury's chair is empty. Some say it’s cursed. Others say it’s just vacant. But one way or another, no one’s been brave — or foolish — enough to sit in it yet.  This is partly for administrative reasons - because it has taken months for the church of England's democratic structures to grind into being.  But I suspect there's more to it than that.  Which of our small cadre of bishops would even want the job?

The job of Archbishop of Canterbury has never been easy. In fact, if William Temple were still around, he might well say: “I told you so.” He lasted barely two years in the job before dying of overwork — and that was during the Second World War. His friends said he burned too brightly. His critics said he meddled in politics. But no one ever accused him of sitting on the fence. He believed a bishop should be a theologian, a pastor, a statesman — and that the Church should speak not just to the faithful, but to the poor, the frightened, and the exploited. Which, I suppose, is still the job description. On paper.

But in practice, who in their right mind would want the job now? It’s a poisoned chalice, some say — and maybe they’re right. Whoever next puts on that mitre will be expected to hold together a Communion that’s already falling apart. They’ll be criticised if they move too fast and condemned if they move too slow. They’ll be mocked by the secular press, shouted at by the religious extremes, and dissected in real time on Twitter. So perhaps it’s no wonder the process is taking so long. What bishop in their right mind wants to be nailed to that particular cross?

And yet — and yet — someone must. Because, as Paul reminds us in that fierce, tender letter to the Romans: “We do not live to ourselves, and we do not die to ourselves.” The Church, in all her mess and muddle, is still called to be Christ’s Body. Still called to search and to serve. Still called to hold the line — not against the world, but for it.

And I think that’s what Jesus is getting at in the parables we’ve heard today. The sheep that goes astray — the coin that slips out of reach — these are not just metaphors for individuals who have wandered from God. They are metaphors for *value*. The shepherd searches not because he’s sentimental, but because that sheep matters. The woman turns her house upside down because the coin is worth something. That which is lost still has value — still has purpose — and still belongs.

If that’s true of individuals, it’s true of institutions too. It’s easy to scoff at the Church these days. Easy to throw up our hands at the bureaucracy, the indecision, the PR disasters. Easy to say the whole thing’s lost. But if Jesus still counts sheep and still counts coins — if nothing is too lost for him to bother with — then even the Church of England might just be worth saving. Even the see of Canterbury might still matter. Not because it’s powerful. Not because it’s perfect. But because it *belongs* to Christ — and so do we.

Another favourite bishop of mine is St Leonard - a sixth-century Frenchman who came the patron saint of prisoners. And that’s a curious detail, because Leonard was never a prisoner himself. He was a nobleman. He had the king’s ear. But he used that privilege to plead for captives. He intervened for their freedom. He turned his back on status and spent his life in service. In that sense, he and William Temple might have understood each other rather well.

And perhaps that’s the call to us too. Not to chase the mitre or flee from it, but to take seriously what we’ve been given. Privilege, freedom, faith — none of these are possessions. They are vocations. And just as Leonard used his position to plead for the imprisoned, so must we use our place — as Christians, as Anglicans, as members of this bruised and battling Church — to plead for those who still feel lost. Lost in systems. Lost in silence. Lost in shame.

So, yes — we wait. The Archbishop’s chair remains empty. The Church’s unity remains fragile. And the questions we face are many and real — about marriage, about mission, about meaning. But we do not face them alone. “Whether we live or whether we die,” says Paul, “we are the Lord’s.” Which means the burden is not ours to carry alone, and the future is not ours to control.

But we do have this moment — this calling — this little patch of the kingdom, in Havant entrusted to us. And maybe that’s enough. Enough to pray for wisdom. Enough to speak for the outcast. Enough to search for what’s been lost. Because in the end, the parables are not about the sheep or the coin — they are about the Seeker, the one who seeks, the relentless, rejoicing, ridiculous God who searches where we would give up, and who pardons where we would judge.

So let us be foolish enough to keep seeking. Let us be brave enough to keep belonging. And let us be kind enough to keep the door open — for the new archbishop, for the prodigal, for the prisoner, for the one coin that no one else remembers.

Amen.

Doubting Thomas of Havant

Readings (from the NRSV):  

Ephesians 2:19–22 

So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God,  built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the cornerstone.  In him the whole structure is joined together and grows into a holy temple in the Lord;  in whom you also are built together spiritually into a dwelling-place for God. 

John 20:24–29 

But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came.  So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”

A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.”

Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.”

Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!”  Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” 

__________________________________________________________________________

There are moments in life when someone says your name in a certain tone, and you know you’re in trouble. For me, that tone is “Thomas…” Usually accompanied by a sigh and some level of disappointment. And I confess, it’s a name that has a bit of baggage. We Thomases have a reputation: “Doubting,” they call us—as if that’s the worst thing a person could be.

I rather like Thomas. Not just because we share a name, but because he’s honest. Gritty. He doesn’t do groupthink. While the rest of the disciples are insisting that they’ve seen a miracle – the risen Jesus, Thomas says what many of us are thinking: “Unless I see the mark of the nails… I will not believe.” That’s not unbelief. That’s just a refusal to fake it. He needs to know the truth for himself – not just receive, uncritically, the truth of others.

And let’s be honest: the Church has spent far too long faking it..  We’ve become experts at acting as though belief is something we can tick off like a shopping list—Trinity? Check. Resurrection? Check. Virgin birth, heaven, angels, miracles, final judgement? Check, check, check. But faith is not a checklist. It’s a relationship. And like any real relationship, it has its moments of doubt, frustration, miscommunication and—yes—even absence.

Thomas wasn’t there when Jesus appeared the first time. No one knows where he was. Maybe he was off getting food for the others. Maybe he was off on his own, trying to make sense of what had happened. But here’s what matters: when they told him “we’ve seen the Lord,” he didn’t pretend to go along with it. He told the truth of his heart. And when Jesus appeared again, a week later, it was not to scold him. It was not to shame him. It was to offer exactly what Thomas had asked for. Proof.

Now I know, Jesus says “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.” But I don’t think he’s rebuking Thomas. I think he’s blessing the rest of us. The ones who don’t get a private audience. The ones who wrestle with faith in the quiet corners of their lives, without visions or miracles or appearances behind locked doors. Jesus meets the doubter with grace. And he meets the rest of us too—with mystery.

And that’s where the reading from Ephesians comes in. Paul, never one for understatement, lifts our eyes with his thunderous prose... “You are no longer strangers and aliens, but citizens with the saints… built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ himself as the cornerstone.”

It’s tempting, especially today, to hear that and imagine a kind of spiritual fortress—strong, unshakable, closed to outsiders. But that’s not what Paul is saying. This isn’t about gatekeeping. This is about belonging. You are not strangers. You are not outsiders. You are part of the household. You belong. Doubts and all.

And so, dear friends, today we honour a saint who dared to doubt. A saint who didn’t settle for second-hand certainty. A saint who wrestled with the hardest truth of all: that death might not be the end. And—spoiler alert—he lost that wrestling match. Resurrection won. Life won. Love won.

Thomas may have doubted the resurrection, but when he finally saw the risen Christ, he didn’t just nod and say “OK, fair enough.” No. He fell to his knees and cried out the highest confession of faith in the whole Gospel: “My Lord and my God!” Thomas, the doubter, becomes Thomas, the believer—though not in the shallow sense of accepting doctrine. He becomes the one who knows, deeply and personally, who Jesus is. Not a ghost. Not a myth. But God-with-us.

Now, if I may, I want to say a word to Sandra, who begins, this week, her ministry as a priest. Sandra, do not fear the doubters. They are your allies. They will ask the hard questions that keep your theology honest. They will resist the easy answers that can so easily rot into slogans. And when you yourself have your moments of Thomas-like honesty—because you will—they will carry you. Because the Church is not built on certainty. It is built on grace.

And to the rest of us, let’s stop pretending that doubt is a problem to be solved. It is, more often than not, the sign of a living faith. As the poet Rainer Maria Rilke once wrote, “Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart… Try to love the questions themselves.” Thomas loved the questions. And Jesus loved Thomas.

So when people call us Doubting Thomases, let’s wear the name with pride. Because the world doesn’t need more people who pretend to know it all. It needs people brave enough to say: “I’m not sure. But I’m still here. Still hoping. Still reaching out.” Just like Thomas did.

Amen.

Boniface: on vocation (not vacation)

Sermon for the Feast of St Boniface

Texts: Luke 10:1–11 & Acts 20:24–28
Preached by a fellow son of Devon

There’s a story I like about a vicar in rural Devon who, one Sunday, stood before his congregation and solemnly declared: “My dear friends, I have received a call from God to be a missionary... to the Bahamas.”

A long silence followed, until a voice from the back pew muttered: “Funny, God never calls them to Barnstaple in January, does He?”

Now I begin with that bit of whimsey not to mock missionary zeal, but to highlight its cost. For most of us, the idea of being "sent out like lambs among wolves" is more terrifying than inspiring. And yet today we honour a man from my own beloved Devon—Crediton, no less—who did just that. Not to the Bahamas, sadly for him, but to the much chillier forests of Germany. He could have had a safe and comfortable ecclesiastical career in England. He was a brilliant Latin scholar, poet, teacher. Exeter would have suited him just fine. But Boniface—born Wynfrith—chose danger, uncertainty, and hardship. And we ought to ask: why?

Let’s be clear: this isn’t just the tale of a man who left home to spread the gospel. It is the story of someone who grasped what Paul meant when he said, “I do not count my life of any value to myself, if only I may finish my course and the ministry that I received from the Lord Jesus.” Boniface was a man who took the Church seriously—more seriously than comfort, more seriously than success, and certainly more seriously than safety.

Boniface saw that mission was not a vacation, but a vocation. He didn’t travel across the Channel for the bratwurst and beer; he went with a heart on fire for Christ, determined to bring light into the dark woods of Frisia and Bavaria. And it was no picnic. He faced resistance, confusion, political chaos—and trees. Yes, trees.

There is that famous story—half historical account, half heroic legend—of Boniface marching up to a great sacred oak at Geismar, an oak so revered by the local pagans that even the idea of trimming a branch might get you into serious trouble. But Boniface? He didn’t just prune it. He chopped the whole thing down. Timber! And then, nothing happened. No lightning bolt. No thunder. No wrath of Woden. Just a very surprised crowd of now slightly worried pagans watching their sacred oak fall like a Devon beech tree in a winter storm.

And there you have it—the moment when gospel courage met pagan superstition, and gospel courage won.

I love that image. Not because I’m against trees—I’m quite fond of them, and I’ve been known to hug one or two in my time—but because Boniface recognised that symbols matter. He knew that unless someone made a stand—unless someone showed that God is not to be trifled with, nor mocked, nor sidelined by superstition—then the gospel would never take root.

And take root it did. Not just in conversions, but in culture. Boniface founded monasteries that weren’t just religious centres but beacons of learning and stability. He championed the Rule of St Benedict, which gave the Church a backbone. He reformed wayward churches, crowned kings, consecrated bishops, and spent his final days waiting—not for retirement, but for more baptisms.

And then—let’s not skip over it—he died. Brutally. At the hands of those who rejected Christ, while waiting to confirm new believers. He literally died with a gospel book in his hands. That’s what it means to follow Christ with your whole life.

Now, you might think that’s all very inspiring, but also very far away—both in geography and in time. But remember this: Boniface was not born into greatness. He wasn’t raised in Rome or Jerusalem. He came from the green hills of Devon, just like I did. He would probably have enjoyed Wurzel songs, just like me.  Which means that extraordinary faith is not confined to special people in special places. It is planted in ordinary soil—Crediton clay, Exeter stone—and made fruitful by the Spirit of God.

So the question for us, when we consider the lives of so many saints, is not “How marvellous Boniface was!” but “What am I doing with the gospel that has been entrusted to me?” The call of Christ still echoes across the land: “Go on your way. See, I am sending you out like lambs into the midst of wolves.” Most of us are not called to fell oaks or face martyrdom. But we are all called to go. Whether that means speaking truth in the club room, showing kindness in a hostile meeting, forgiving when it costs us pride, or standing firm when it would be easier to fold; we are all part of this apostolic band. Boniface is not just a saint to be admired—he’s a pattern to be followed.

And to be honest, I think the Church today could use a bit more of his steel. Too often we’ve settled for being nice instead of being holy. We’ve trimmed the gospel into something polite and inoffensive, forgetting that the good news often begins with an axe to the sacred oaks of our culture. The oaks of consumerism. The oaks of selfishness. The oaks of complacent faith.

Friends, if an old monk from Devon could shake half of Europe awake with nothing but a Bible and a bishop's crook, then surely we, too, can do something for Christ in our time. May God give us Boniface’s courage, his conviction, and yes—even his stubborn West Country grit. Amen.

The forgotten disciples...Philip and James

Sermon on the Feast of Philip and James

Texts: Ephesians 1.3–10 and John 14.1–14

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cuthbert: A Radical Call to Reclaim Lost Sheep

A sermon for the feast day of Cuthbert, Bishop of Lindisfarne, Missionary, d.687 (20 March)

Texts: 2 Corinthians 6.1–10 and Matthew 18.12–14

By any modern standards, Cuthbert is a very odd fellow indeed.  Picture him, the monk, the bishop, the hermit, alone on his windswept Inner Farne, puffins alone for companions, the wild North Sea a constant, rhythmic prayer. He remembers the sheep he tended as a boy, the visions that called him from the hills of his youth, the long, arduous journeys that led him to Lindisfarne, and then, finally, to this solitary refuge. He remembers the faces of those he served, his silent communion with the creatures of the shore.  He reflects on the unwavering call of a God that echoed in the crashing waves and the cries of the gulls. He is Saint Cuthbert, a soul forged in the crucible of wind and wave, a life etched in the stark beauty of the northern landscape, a testament to the power of a simple, radical faith.

We gather today, on this feast day of one of the greatest of Britain’s saints, not to merely recall a figure from a distant age, but to ignite within ourselves the spark of his radical spirit. We stand here, on the cusp of spring, a time of renewal, and we consider the life of a man who embodied that very renewal, a man whose life speaks to us with a startling clarity.  We’ll think about Cuthbert together, but through the lens of the readings we’ve just heard – through Paul's urgent plea to the Corinthians (2 Corinthians 6:1-10) and Jesus’ parable of the lost sheep. (Matthew 18:12-14.)

First Paul, who implores his readers, including us, “not to receive God’s grace in vain.” He lays bare the trials of ministry: affliction, hardships, calamities, beatings, imprisonments, riots, labours, sleepless nights, hunger.  And yet, amidst this litany of suffering, he proclaims the paradoxical reality of the Christian life: we are “sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; poor, yet making many rich; having nothing, and yet possessing everything.”

Cuthbert: the shepherd boy, like King David, who became a monk, a bishop, a hermit. He knew hardship. He knew the biting winds of the North Sea, the isolation of Inner Farne, the weight of leadership. Yet, in that very isolation, in that very simplicity, he found a profound connection with the divine. He knew the joy of communion with God in the wild, the solace of the sea birds, the quiet strength of the earth. And he made many rich in their hearts by the depth of his connection to the Divine, hard-won, on the stark North sea coast.

In this age of rampant consumerism and ecological devastation, we have so much to learn from Cuthbert’s reverence for creation. He understood the natural world as a sacred space, a testament to God’s boundless love, and not merely a resource to be exploited.  He lived a life of radical simplicity, a life that challenged the prevailing norms of his time, just as it challenges ours.

By complete contrast, we are bombarded with messages that tell us we are not enough, that we need more, that happiness lies in material possessions. But Cuthbert, like Paul, understood that true wealth lies not in what we possess, but in what we give. He gave his life to God, to his community, to the very land he walked upon.

Then let’s turn to Jesus’ parable of the lost sheep. He tells us that if a shepherd has a hundred sheep and one goes astray, he will leave the ninety-nine and go in search of the lost one. That is the radical, unrelenting love of God. A love that leaves the comfortable flock to seek out the marginalized, the forgotten, the broken.

Cuthbert, in his own way, embodied this relentless pursuit of the lost. He was a pastor who cared deeply for his flock, who sought out the spiritual well-being of every soul under his care. He was a leader who understood that true leadership is about service, not power.

Today, we are surrounded by lost sheep. We see them in the faces of the homeless, the refugees, the victims of injustice. We see them in the eyes of those who have been marginalized and excluded by the very institutions that claim to represent God.

The church, at times, has been guilty of neglecting these lost sheep. We have become too comfortable within our walls, too concerned with maintaining our own power and privilege. Too concerned about our internal battles for our traditions and for our particular ideas about God.  We have forgotten the radical call of Jesus to go out into the world and seek the lost.

Cuthbert’s life is a challenge to us. It is a call to reclaim the lost sheep, to stand in solidarity with the marginalized, to live lives of radical simplicity and ecological responsibility. It is a call to be, as Paul urges, “sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; poor, yet making many rich; having nothing, and yet possessing everything.”

This is not a call to passive piety. My friends, our faith calls us to more than just attending church.  Cuthbert, Paul and Jesus call us to action.  It is a call to be agents of change, to be beacons of hope in a world that is fast losing that hope.  It is a call to live our faith with courage and conviction, to embrace the paradox of the Christian life, to find joy in sorrow, strength in weakness, and abundance in simplicity.

So, on this feast of St Cuthbert, shall we commit ourselves anew to the radical path of following Jesus? Can we be inspired by his example of love, compassion, and unwavering trust in the Divine?  We are invited to reclaim the lost sheep; not just those outside the church, but those within, who have been wounded by our judgement and neglected by our indifference.   Shall we dare to live lives that reflect the beauty and simplicity of God’s creation.  And may we, like Cuthbert, find our true home in the Divine heart. Amen.

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

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

Readings:  Malachi 2.5-7 and Matthew 11.25-end

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In search of Wisdom at the start of the year

 Texts: Wisdom of Solomon 7:15-22

Matthew 5:13-19

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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