One Faith, two Understandings

Texts: Hebrews 11.29 – 12.2 and Luke 12.49-56

NOTE: This is an updated sermon, based on feedback from Facebook friends.

One Faith, Two Understandings

Last week, we talked about faith as something practical – a living trust in God that moves us to act. It shapes how we use our time, our lives and our money. Thank you, by the way, to those of you who responded positively to my call to review your giving. It’s not too late if you haven’t done so yet!

This week, Hebrews pushes us further. Faith, it says, is the reason the Israelites walked through the Red Sea when every sensible instinct told them to run the other way – run away! run away.  Faith is why Jericho’s walls fell, in that powerful myth. And it’s why so many saints, through the ages, have endured prison, mockery, and even death.

Faith, in other words, is not polite agreement. It’s courage. It’s commitment. It’s Maximilian Kolbe, at Auschwitz, stepping forward to die in another man’s place. For two weeks he led his fellow prisoners in song, until he was the last left alive. And even then – when he had nothing left but death – he gave it as a gift. That is faith, at the limits of what’s possible.

But Jesus warns us: faith like that comes with consequences. “Do you think I came to bring peace?” he says. “No – not peace, but division.” This is not because Jesus enjoys conflict.  Rather, it’s Jesus warning us that truly living by his teaching will sometimes put us at odds with the people we love most.  When we challenge cruelty, or refuse to laugh at that racist joke, or question hate dressed up as common sense… yes, sparks fly.

I found myself back in that uncomfortable space this week, while engaging in the national shouting match about migration. I was frustrated at the vote-chasing actions of our local MPs, and at the spittle-flecked faces of some of the protestors I saw in Waterlooville. Once again, I saw the words “England is a Christian country!” brandished online, often next to the flag of St George. And I thought: the same cross that flies from our church tower – above the open door of our church – is now being waved on screens as a banner for shutting the door on the outsider.

And that makes me uncomfortable. Not because I think it’s wrong to love one’s country. But because Christianity – real Christianity – has always been about opening the door.

Still, I want to be fair. There is fear in our country right now – deep, anxious fear. And not just in the headlines. Some of it is economic: how will we house everyone? What about our struggling schools and NHS? Some is just human: we’re tired, and change makes us, well,  tired-er.  Some of the fear is cultural: how much can a country change before it loses its sense of itself?

That last question deserves a proper answer. As an amateur student of history, I think the answer lies in our own story. The story of Britain is a story of waves of migration: Romans, Saxons, Vikings, Normans, Huguenots, Jews, Europeans, former colonials, Pakistanis, Ugandan Indians, West Indians, Ethiopians, Eritreans, Somalis – I even used to run a hostel for 300 of them in the 1980s.

Yes, each wave brought challenge. But over time, those shocks subsided. People got to know each other. They intermarried. They shared food, culture, music, humour. And a new, richer tapestry of English life emerged. So yes – change can feel frightening. But history tells us: we adapt. We grow. We become more than we were.  And history tells us that integration is never a black and white issue.  There are always nuances, and real people’s lives at stake – no matter how much certain politicians and newspapers try to whip up our hatred.

Of course, we mustn’t pretend that all public fears are imaginary. No – they are real. They are powerful. Some are even reasonable. But fear should never be the driver of Christian ethics. Love should be. Wisdom should be. Truth should be.

One person challenged me this week on the idea of the moral high ground. She asked, “Is our moral obligation really to the man arriving in Kent in a dinghy any greater than to the child starving in Yemen or Gaza?” And that’s a good question. Because both are our neighbour. And the Gospel doesn’t let us ignore either one.

But it also doesn’t let us turn one into a weapon against the other. The child in Gaza and the man in the dinghy are not your enemy. Your enemy is the narrative that says we must harden our hearts to survive. That fear must rule us. That compassion is a luxury we can’t afford.

So when someone says “We can’t take everyone!” I agree. We can’t. But we can take some. And how we treat the few who do make it to our shores – the 0.02% of the worldwide number of refugees - says everything about who we really are. Hospitality is not a British invention. It’s a Gospel command.

Today’s Gospel reminds is that two people can stand under the same flag, call themselves Christian, and mean completely different things by it. One hears Jesus say, “I was a stranger and you welcomed me,” and thinks, “Better put the kettle on.” Another hears the same words and says, “We need stronger borders.” It’s the same cross, but two completely different Gospels – and only one of them looks like Jesus.

So, when the difficult conversations come – the Sunday roast that turns awkward at Grandad’s xenophobic rant, or the Facebook discussion that descends into insult – remember: you’re in good company. You stand with the saints. You stand with Jesus, who endured hostility for the sake of joy.

And I’ll leave you with this thought: If your Christianity fits perfectly with your politics – of any stripe – it’s worth checking whether you’re following Jesus… or just yourself in a long robe. Are you, in fact, making God in YOUR image, rather than the other way round?

But for now, keep running the race. Keep fighting the good fight (as our last hymn encourages us today).  Not with shouting or bitterness, but with quiet, stubborn courage. With faith.  For, faith is not always about keeping the peace. Sometimes it’s about keeping the faith.

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.

Faith and Finances

Now faith, says the writer to the Hebrews, is “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” Which is a poetic way of saying: “Faith is trusting in something you can’t yet see, while other people are looking at you as if you’ve lost your marbles.”

Abraham, we’re told, set off “not knowing where he was going.” Imagine that conversation:

Sarah: “Where are we headed, dear?”

Abraham: “Dunno.”

Sarah: “And when will we get there?”

Abraham: “No idea.”

Sarah: “Right. I’ll just go and pack the tent, then.”

Faith like that is not about ticking a doctrinal box. It’s about living as if God’s promised future is worth building here and now — even before we’ve seen the blueprint. That’s what makes it progressive faith: we’re not nostalgically gazing at the ‘good old days’ (which, incidentally, were never as good as people remember). We’re leaning forward, straining our eyes towards the city “whose architect and builder is God” — and we’re not afraid if the plans include solar panels, ramps for accessibility, and a community kitchen.

Then Luke’s Gospel comes along and makes things even more awkward. Jesus says, “Sell your possessions, and give alms… make purses for yourselves that do not wear out.” Which is a lovely metaphor, but inconvenient if you like your purse stuffed with a nice reserve for rainy days. Jesus is being deeply annoying here, because he’s asking us to live as if our real treasure is in heaven — which means our resources here are tools for love, not trophies for display.

And this is where faith and finance bump into each other like two strangers in a supermarket. Because when we talk about “treasure in heaven” in church, it’s tempting to think of it purely as a warm spiritual glow, rather than anything to do with our bank statement. But Jesus won’t let us separate the two. “Where your treasure is,” he says, “there your heart will be also.” In other words: “Show me your budget, and I’ll show you what you worship.”

Here at St Faith’s, our budget is both a source of pride and a challenge. Pride, because we manage to do an enormous amount with relatively little. Challenge, because the reality is that we are heavily reliant on income from our property lettings and from the charity shop just to keep the lights on and the heating running. Without those, we simply couldn’t cover our basic running costs. And on top of that comes our Parish Share — our contribution to the life of the whole Diocese, funding the stipends of clergy in places that could never afford them on their own, and enabling mission across Hampshire.

Our Parish Share this year is around £68,000. That’s before we’ve spent a single penny on local ministry, music, outreach, or maintaining our beautiful but rather high-maintenance buildings. Last year, we fell short of that target, and the truth is that unless we increase our giving, we will fall short again. And I don’t want us to become a parish that survives only by selling things and renting rooms, while our regular, sustained, faith-filled personal giving stagnates.

From a purely financial point of view, it might make sense to say, “Well, let’s just keep more of our money here, for our own needs.” But that’s not faith talking — that’s fear talking. Faith says: “It is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.” Which is a very churchy way of saying: “God’s not stingy. The kingdom is already on offer. You can afford to live generously.”

And generosity is infectious. When a congregation catches the vision that what we give changes lives — when we see that a little seed planted here grows into a great tree there — something shifts in the heart. We stop seeing giving as “loss” and start seeing it as “investment in God’s future.”

Faith is not about sitting back and waiting for God to magic the kingdom into existence. Faith rolls up its sleeves. Faith signs a standing order. Faith trusts that even in a cost-of-living crisis, generosity is possible — and that generosity plants seeds which will grow into a harvest we might not yet see.

So let’s talk practicalities for a moment. If you are already giving regularly — thank you. You are the backbone of our financial stability. But if each of us who gives were able to add just £5 a week — the price of a couple of takeaway coffees — we would raise an extra £10,000 a year.

If some could manage £10 a week extra, we’d add £20,000 a year — enough to close our Parish Share gap significantly and invest in new ministry. 

And if you’ve never yet set up regular giving, even £20 a month — less than most people pay for streaming TV — would make a huge difference if enough people joined in.

This is mustard-seed stuff. Tiny acts of trust that grow into something sheltering, beautiful, and life-giving.

And if you are one of the poor, those so strapped for cash that they need to give nothing, then come and talk to me or Sandra, privately, about how we can help you get on your feet, financially.  We do that, you know.  That’s what the Rector’s Discretionary Fund is all about.

So today, I’m not just asking us to hear the words of Hebrews and Luke and nod sagely. I’m asking us to live them. To give with joy, to serve with gladness, and to keep our eyes fixed on the city that God is building — the one with foundations strong enough to bear the weight of all our hopes, and walls wide enough to welcome everyone in.

And if anyone ever asks you why on earth you gave away so much of your time, your money, your love — just smile and say, “Faith. The assurance of things hoped for. The conviction of things not seen. And the joy of being part of God’s ridiculous, generous, world-changing plan.”

Amen.

Not So Solid: Rethinking the Rock of Faith

Readings:

Numbers 20.1–13 (NRSV Anglicised)

The Israelites, the whole congregation, came into the wilderness of Zin in the first month, and the people stayed in Kadesh. Miriam died there, and was buried there.

Now there was no water for the congregation; so they gathered together against Moses and against Aaron. The people quarrelled with Moses and said, ‘Would that we had died when our kindred died before the Lord! Why have you brought the assembly of the Lord into this wilderness for us and our livestock to die here? Why have you brought us up out of Egypt, to bring us to this wretched place? It is no place for grain, or figs, or vines, or pomegranates; and there is no water to drink.’

Then Moses and Aaron went away from the assembly to the entrance of the tent of meeting; they fell on their faces, and the glory of the Lord appeared to them. The Lord spoke to Moses, saying:

‘Take the staff, and assemble the congregation, you and your brother Aaron, and command the rock before their eyes to yield its water. Thus you shall bring water out of the rock for them; thus you shall provide drink for the congregation and their livestock.’

So Moses took the staff from before the Lord, as he had commanded him. Moses and Aaron gathered the assembly together before the rock, and he said to them, ‘Listen, you rebels, shall we bring water for you out of this rock?’ Then Moses lifted up his hand and struck the rock twice with his staff; water came out abundantly, and the congregation and their livestock drank.

But the Lord said to Moses and Aaron, ‘Because you did not trust in me, to show my holiness before the eyes of the Israelites, therefore you shall not bring this assembly into the land that I have given them.’

These are the waters of Meribah, where the people of Israel quarrelled with the Lord, and by which he showed his holiness.

Matthew 16.13–23 (NRSV Anglicised)

Now when Jesus came into the district of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, ‘Who do people say that the Son of Man is?’

And they said, ‘Some say John the Baptist, but others Elijah, and still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.’

He said to them, ‘But who do you say that I am?’

Simon Peter answered, ‘You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.’

And Jesus answered him, ‘Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven. And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.’

Then he sternly ordered the disciples not to tell anyone that he was the Messiah.

From that time on, Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised.

And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him, saying, ‘God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.’

But he turned and said to Peter, ‘Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling-block to me; for you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.’

Sermon:

Not So Solid: Rethinking the Rock of Faith

There’s something suspiciously ironic about calling someone “the Rock” when they’ve just had a moment of divine insight and are, five minutes later, going to be called “Satan.” That’s quite a swing. From granite to gravel in just a few verses.

“You are Peter,” says Jesus, “and on this rock I will build my church.” Peter—the fisherman, the foot-in-mouth specialist, the man who sinks while walking on water and chops off ears when diplomacy would do. Not exactly foundation material by most HR standards. But then again, God seems to have a taste for building with mismatched bricks.

Now, for centuries—especially in the Roman Catholic tradition—this moment has been read as Peter being given the keys to the kingdom, the badge of ultimate authority, and the ecclesiastical hard hat. The pope becomes the spiritual heir to Peter, and so the rock on which the Church is built becomes a particular person, a line of succession, an office.

But there’s another way to read it—slightly less institutional, and perhaps more personal. Just before Jesus calls Peter the rock, Peter makes a bold declaration: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” It’s the first time any disciple has said it out loud. Up until now, they’ve scratched their heads and murmured about prophets and Elijah and John the Baptist coming back in a toga. But Peter cuts through the fog. “You are the Christ.” And maybe, just maybe, that’s the rock Jesus wants to build on. Not the man himself, but the faith—the *trust*—expressed in that moment.

Which brings us to a question: what kind of rock is faith, anyway?

Some people treat it like granite—a solid block of certainty, unchanging and immovable. For them, faith is about holding tightly to a set of doctrinal truths: tick the boxes, recite the creeds, defend the castle walls. But for others—perhaps more of us than we care to admit—faith feels more like sandstone. There are contours and curves, it erodes a little with time, but it still holds its shape. It's a rock you can lean on, not one to smash others with.

Faith, in this gentler mode, is not so much about being certain of facts, but trusting in a person. In a relationship. In a way of living and loving that has captured your heart.

Which brings us, helpfully, to Moses and his bad day at the office. In the book of Numbers, the people are thirsty (again), and complaining (again), and Moses is tired (again). God tells him to speak to a rock, and water will come out. But Moses, fed up and perhaps a little performative, whacks the rock twice instead. Water still flows, but God is unimpressed. “Because you did not trust in me,” says the Lord, “you shall not bring this assembly into the land.”

Now, on first reading, this seems harsh. The man has been faithful for decades, dragging this reluctant rabble across the desert, and one wrong move and he’s grounded. But perhaps the issue is deeper than stage directions. Moses—like Peter—has let his trust wobble. He relies on force, not faith. He assumes the power is his to wield, not God’s to give. And in that moment, he ceases to lead in trust.

So what is faith? For a progressive Christian, perhaps faith is less about *knowing* and more about *leaning*. Less about asserting theological propositions, and more about following Jesus through the crowd, listening to his voice, watching how he treats the poor and the proud and the powerful. Faith is saying, “I trust this man. I trust the God he shows me. I trust that love wins.”

That doesn’t mean there’s no place for thinking, of course. The brain is a marvellous organ, and Jesus never asked us to leave it at the door. But when faith becomes a set of intellectual hoops to jump through—when it becomes a pass/fail exam in metaphysics—we lose something essential. We lose the heart of trust.

And perhaps that’s the real rock the church is built on. Not a person in Rome or Jerusalem or Havant, but the lived trust that God is love, that Jesus shows us who God is, and that following him leads to life.

Which is good news for us, because most of us are more Peter than Paul, more Moses than mystic. We wobble, we whack when we should speak, we make declarations and then immediately fall flat. But the church is not built on perfection. It’s built on trust. Trust in Jesus, trust in love, trust that somehow God can build something beautiful out of us rocky, crumbly, peculiar bits of stone.

So may we be faithful, not in the sense of being always certain, but in the sense of keeping close. Trusting. Listening. Following. And letting God draw water—even from our hardest places.

Amen.

Jesus, the Universe, and a Baby Called Krystal

Well, what a day! Not only are we celebrating the baptism of little Krystal—beloved daughter of Paul and Maz, sister to the indomitable Adriana—but we are also witnessing something almost as momentous: Sandra, our Curate, is performing her very first baptism.

Now, there’s something quite wonderful about that. A baptism is always a team effort—God, baby, parents, godparents, church, slightly damp priest—but today, the team includes someone reaching a new milestone in her own ministry. And if you see Sandra doing a small jump at the font, don’t worry. It’s not a liturgical innovation. It’s just that the font is quite tall, and Sandra…well, isn’t.

But we have full confidence in her. What she lacks in height, she makes up for in grace—and we trust the Holy Spirit to ensure the water lands in the right place.

And what a joy this moment is. A new child welcomed into the family of faith. Promises made. Candles lit. Water splashed (on the baby, not the congregation, we hope). And of course, the rest of us—all of us—reminded of our own calling: to support, to teach, to nurture. Because raising a Christian child isn’t a solo sport. It’s a shared journey.

Our reading from Colossians may sound a little lofty for a family service—it begins with “He is the image of the invisible God,” which is a far cry from nappies and naptimes. But there’s something powerful in that cosmic scale. Paul is telling us that Christ is not just some helpful guru with good advice about sharing toys and saying your prayers. Christ is the beginning and the end, the head of the church, the one in whom all things hold together.

And then, just when we’ve soared to the rhetorical stratosphere, Paul brings us gently back to earth: “It is he whom we proclaim, warning everyone and teaching everyone in all wisdom, so that we may present everyone mature in Christ.”

Mature in Christ.

That’s our goal—not just for Krystal, but for each of us. And we’re not born with it. Christian maturity isn’t automatic. It grows slowly, through the love of a family, the encouragement of a church, the patient teaching of godparents, and the occasional poorly attended PCC meeting. It’s a process. And it starts small—like a child sitting at someone’s feet and listening.

Which brings us to Mary and Martha.

You can picture the scene. Jesus pops in for a visit. Martha springs into action—rattling pans, fluffing cushions, laying the table, searching for that one matching plate that always goes missing just before a guest arrives. Meanwhile, Mary… sits, and listens. At Jesus’ feet. While Martha stews.

And when Martha complains—quite understandably—Jesus says, gently but firmly, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things. But only one thing is needed.”

Now, I don’t think Jesus is saying chores don’t matter. He’s not issuing a blanket ban on housework. Some of us quite like a well-fluffed cushion. But he is pointing to a deeper truth: that it’s all too easy to be busy about the wrong things. To forget what truly matters.

There’s a message here for every household—but especially for new parents. Because let’s be honest: raising a baby is hard. There are a hundred urgent things screaming for attention—feeding, changing, burping, laundry, locating the lost dummy at 2am. It’s very easy to become a Martha.

But in the middle of all the flurry, Jesus invites us to make space for the Mary moments. The listening. The learning. The quiet reassurance that we are loved, not because we’ve got everything under control, but because we belong to him.

And that’s what we want for Krystal. And for Adriana, as she grows into her role as big sister and co-adventurer in faith. And for all the children of this church. Not perfection. Not performance. But maturity in Christ. A life rooted in love and wisdom, shaped by prayer and kindness and courage.

So let’s make that our promise today. Paul and Maz, you are not alone. Godparents, this is your gig too. And church family, this is our shared calling: it’s your job and mine to surround these children with grace and laughter and faith.

Let’s be a Mary-minded community in a Martha-shaped world. Let’s make time for what matters. And let’s trust that the Christ who holds all things together can certainly hold this family—and this little church—together, too.

And if the font gets a bit splashy in the process… well, that’s baptismal abundance. Amen.

Whose Land Is It Anyway?

Readings

Exodus 3.13–20 (NRSV)

But Moses said to God, ‘If I come to the Israelites and say to them, “The God of your ancestors has sent me to you”, and they ask me, “What is his name?” what shall I say to them?’

God said to Moses, ‘I AM WHO I AM.’ He said further, ‘Thus you shall say to the Israelites, “I AM has sent me to you.”’

God also said to Moses, ‘Thus you shall say to the Israelites, “The LORD, the God of your ancestors, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, has sent me to you”: This is my name for ever, and this my title for all generations.

'Go and assemble the elders of Israel, and say to them, “The LORD, the God of your ancestors, the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, has appeared to me, saying: I have given heed to you and to what has been done to you in Egypt.  I declare that I will bring you up out of the misery of Egypt, to the land of the Canaanites, the Hittites, the Amorites, the Perizzites, the Hivites, and the Jebusites, a land flowing with milk and honey.”

'They will listen to your voice; and you and the elders of Israel shall go to the king of Egypt and say to him, “The LORD, the God of the Hebrews, has met with us; let us now go a three days’ journey into the wilderness, so that we may sacrifice to the LORD our God.” I know, however, that the king of Egypt will not let you go unless compelled by a mighty hand.  So I will stretch out my hand and strike Egypt with all my wonders that I will perform in it; after that he will let you go.

 

Matthew 11.28–30

‘Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.’

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"Whose Land Is It Anyway?”

When Moses stands before the burning bush in the wilderness, he is not an ideal candidate for leadership. He is a fugitive, a stammerer, and a man with more questions than answers. “Who shall I say sent me?” he asks, and God replies with the most curious name of all: “I Am who I Am.” Not a tribal deity, not a divine mascot, not the god of conquest or empire, but simply Being itself—dynamic, ungraspable, uncontainable. Tell them, says the voice from the flames, “I Am has sent you”.

And then comes the promise—the same promise once whispered to Abraham beneath a starry sky, repeated now to Moses: that God will bring the people out of bondage in Egypt and into a land “flowing with milk and honey.” It is an old promise, one bound up with hope and longing, but also—let us be honest—one that has caused centuries of bloodshed.

Because when the land becomes the prize, when divine promise is confused with political entitlement, the name of God is too often taken in vain. The claim to sacred land—made in God’s name—has led generation after generation to war. And today, the world watches in horror as that same strip of earth, sacred to Jew, Christian and Muslim alike, becomes a battleground of suffering and siege. We see in real time the consequences of centuries of theology twisted into nationalism: promises forged into weapons; faith manipulated to justify occupation, retaliation, and erasure.

Now, I am not naïve. I know that the Bible is full of land promises. The Book of Joshua tells of conquests, Ezra and Nehemiah tell of purifying the people of foreign wives and influence, of rebuilding not just the walls of Jerusalem but the walls of identity—rigid, exclusive, sometimes cruel. These texts were written by a people traumatised by exile, desperate to recover a sense of purpose and belonging. But trauma has a way of hardening boundaries. The post-Exilic writers saw holiness as separation; they painted foreigners as threats, and purity as the pathway to peace. Scholars today—at least the honest ones—recognise that these texts are not historical reportage but theological memory. They are attempts to explain survival, not blueprints for divine real estate.

And yet, that memory lives on—in slogans, in settler movements, in policies that demolish homes and expel communities, all in the name of ancient mandate. As Christians, we must not be complicit in that misuse of Scripture. We must not remain silent when our sacred texts are used to sanctify apartheid. If God is truly “I Am”—the One who is Being itself—then God does not belong to any nation or border. God cannot be owned, weaponised, or colonised.

The Hebrew prophets knew this. Jeremiah, writing amid political disaster, refused to preach easy comfort. He called instead for justice, for repentance, for humility. He told the people that the Temple would not save them unless they learned to care for the widow and the orphan. He warned against putting trust in walls, whether of stone or ideology. “Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you,” he wrote to the exiles in Babylon. In other words: bless the nations, don’t dominate them. Be a light to the world, not a torch of vengeance.

And Jesus, a son of that prophetic tradition, takes it even further. In Matthew’s Gospel, he stands among the weary and the crushed, and says: “Come to me, all you who are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.” Not rest in the sense of laziness or retreat, but shalom—wholeness, harmony, peace. He doesn’t speak of conquest or inheritance. He doesn’t promise land or power. He promises a way: “Take my yoke upon you… for my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

Now there’s a strange thing. The yoke, in rabbinic tradition, was often used to describe the law—the whole weight of religious obligation. Jesus, it seems, is offering a different law. Not one etched in stone, but one etched in mercy. Not a code of exclusions, but a Gospel that stretches outward. And when, after resurrection, he gathers his ragtag followers and sends them into all the world, he does not tell them to claim the earth, but to bless it—to teach, to baptise, to serve.

We must be honest, friends. There is no such thing as divinely mandated land ownership. Not anymore. Perhaps not ever. What we are given is not dominion, but responsibility. The earth is the Lord’s—not ours. And the people who dwell in the land—Israeli and Palestinian, Jew and Muslim and Christian alike—are not pawns in a scriptural drama, but beloved children of God, aching for peace.

So we must ask ourselves, what is our role now? What does it mean to be people of promise? It means we stand not with those who claim divine backing for missiles or checkpoints, but with those who mourn. It means we amplify the voices of peace—Jewish, Muslim, Christian—who call for justice, not vengeance. It means we reject any theology that turns God into a landlord and turns our faith into a deed of ownership.

Moses stood before the burning bush and learned that God is not contained in one place or name. Jesus stood before a weary crowd and offered not territory, but rest. Let us, then, be people who carry that message—into our politics, our pulpits, and our prayers. The world does not need more crusades. It needs more courage. It needs more shalom.

Amen.

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.