Sermon: Who do you say that I am?

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Readings

Romans 12.1–8 – I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect. For by the grace given to me I say to everyone among you not to think of yourself more highly than you ought to think, but to think with sober judgement, each according to the measure of faith that God has assigned. For as in one body we have many members, and not all the members have the same function, so we, who are many, are one body in Christ, and individually we are members one of another. We have gifts that differ according to the grace given to us: prophecy, in proportion to faith; ministry, in ministering; the teacher, in teaching; the exhorter, in exhortation; the giver, in generosity; the leader, in diligence; the compassionate, in cheerfulness.

Matthew 16.13–20 – 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.

Sermon

There are some questions where the answer doesn’t matter very much once the moment is passed. “What shall we have for tea?” “Where did I put my keys?” “Who left the lights on?” They may feel urgent at the time, but life carries on whatever the answer. And then there are questions which get right underneath everything. Questions whose answers shape the way we understand ourselves and the way we live. Jesus asks one of those questions in today’s Gospel.

He and the disciples have come to Caesarea Philippi, and he asks them: “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?” It’s an easy enough question to begin with, because it’s about what other people think. And the disciples have clearly been listening. They’ve heard the rumours and the conversations. Some say John the Baptist. Others Elijah. Others Jeremiah, or one of the prophets. Plenty of opinions. Plenty of speculation.

And then Jesus changes the question. “But who do you say that I am?” Suddenly it’s personal. Jesus isn’t asking what the crowds think. He isn’t asking what the religious experts have written. He isn’t even asking the disciples what they were taught as children. Who do you say that I am?

And Peter answers: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” It is one of the great moments in Matthew’s Gospel. Peter gets it. Or at least, Peter gets it for a moment. Because one of the things I love about Peter is that the Gospels never tidy him up. He can make a magnificent confession of faith one minute and get things spectacularly wrong the next.

In fact, that is exactly what happens here. We stop reading at verse 20 this morning, but if we carried on for only a few more verses, Peter would be rebuking Jesus for talking about suffering and death, and Jesus would say to him, “Get behind me, Satan!”

Quite a turnaround. “You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church.” And then, moments later: “Get behind me, Satan!” Which is worth remembering whenever we imagine that being a faithful Christian means having everything sorted out. Peter certainly didn’t.

He had faith. He also had doubts. He could be brave and frightened, perceptive and completely mistaken. He promised Jesus that he would never desert him and then denied three times that he even knew him. And yet Jesus says: “On this rock I will build my church.” There is hope for all of us in that.

Because the Church is not built out of perfect people. It never has been. The Church is built out of people who, like Peter, are learning what it means to say, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God,” and then trying to work out what that confession means on Monday morning.

And perhaps that is where Paul’s words to the Romans help us. Paul writes: “Present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God.” In other words, faith cannot remain simply an answer to a question.

Peter says who Jesus is. Paul asks what happens next.

If Jesus really is the Christ, then that changes something. Not simply what we believe in our heads, but how we live. How we spend our time. How we use what we have. How we treat people. What we do with the gifts God has given us.

“Do not be conformed to this world,” Paul says, “but be transformed by the renewing of your minds.”

That transformation is not about becoming some impossibly holy version of ourselves. It is about allowing our encounter with Christ gradually to reshape us. And Paul immediately makes that very practical. We have different gifts, he says. Prophecy. Ministry. Teaching. Encouragement. Giving. Leadership. Compassion. Not everyone does everything.

That matters enormously for the life of the Church. Sometimes we can slip into thinking that there are a few people who “do ministry” while everybody else comes along to receive it. But that isn’t Paul’s picture of the Church at all. For Paul, the Church is a body. Different people, different gifts, different callings — but each one belonging to the others.

And that takes us back to Peter. “On this rock I will build my church.” Notice whose Church it is. Not Peter’s. Not the disciples’. Not the clergy’s. Not ours. Christ says, “I will build my church.” That can be both challenging and wonderfully liberating.

Because we can become terribly anxious about the Church. We worry about congregations and buildings and money and volunteers. We worry about whether younger generations will come. We worry about what things might look like in five or ten or twenty years. Some of those concerns are perfectly reasonable. We have responsibilities and we should take them seriously.

But the future of the Church does not ultimately rest upon our ability to keep everything going. “I will build my church,” says Jesus. Our task is not to save the Church. Our task is to be the Church. To worship Christ. To love our neighbours. To serve our communities. To recognise and use the gifts God has given us. To welcome people. To forgive one another. To speak of hope. To notice those whom everybody else overlooks.

And, through all of that, to keep answering Jesus’ question: “Who do you say that I am?”

Because that question never really goes away. We may have recited the Creed hundreds of times. We may have worshipped in church for decades. We may know the stories and the hymns and the prayers by heart. But Jesus still asks: Who do you say that I am?

Not simply with your lips. With your life. Who do you say that I am in the way you treat the difficult neighbour? Who do you say that I am in the way you use your money? Who do you say that I am when somebody needs your time? Who do you say that I am when you are frightened about the future? Who do you say that I am when faith feels uncertain and prayer feels difficult?

Peter’s answer was not the end of his journey. In many ways, it was only the beginning. He still had an enormous amount to learn about what kind of Messiah Jesus would be. He would fail. He would misunderstand. He would run away.

But Christ did not give up on him. And Christ built his Church with people like him. People like us. Ordinary, complicated, gifted, fallible people who have heard Christ’s question and, however imperfectly, have found themselves saying: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”

And if it is his Church, then perhaps we can hold it a little less anxiously and serve it a little more joyfully. Because the foundation of the Church is not our competence, our strength or even the certainty of our faith. The foundation is Christ himself. The Messiah. The Son of the living God.

And the one who is still building his Church through wonderfully imperfect people like us.

Amen.

Sermon: Faith in Abundance (16th Aug, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Romans 11.1–2a, 29–32 – I ask, then, has God rejected his people? By no means! I myself am an Israelite, a descendant of Abraham, a member of the tribe of Benjamin. God has not rejected his people whom he foreknew. For the gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable. Just as you were once disobedient to God but have now received mercy because of their disobedience, so they have now been disobedient in order that, by the mercy shown to you, they too may now receive mercy. For God has imprisoned all in disobedience so that he may be merciful to all.

Matthew 15.10 –28 – Then he called the crowd to him and said to them, ‘Listen and understand: it is not what goes into the mouth that defiles a person, but it is what comes out of the mouth that defiles.’ Then the disciples approached and said to him, ‘Do you know that the Pharisees took offence when they heard what you said?’ He answered, ‘Every plant that my heavenly Father has not planted will be uprooted. Let them alone; they are blind guides of the blind. And if one blind person guides another, both will fall into a pit.’ But Peter said to him, ‘Explain this parable to us.’ Then he said, ‘Are you also still without understanding? Do you not see that whatever goes into the mouth enters the stomach, and goes out into the sewer? But what comes out of the mouth proceeds from the heart, and this is what defiles. For out of the heart come evil intentions, murder, adultery, fornication, theft, false witness, slander. These are what defile a person, but to eat with unwashed hands does not defile.’ Jesus left that place and went away to the district of Tyre and Sidon. Just then a Canaanite woman from that region came out and started shouting, ‘Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.’ But he did not answer her at all. And his disciples came and urged him, saying, ‘Send her away, for she keeps shouting after us.’ He answered, ‘I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.’ But she came and knelt before him, saying, ‘Lord, help me.’ He answered, ‘It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.’ She said, ‘Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.’ Then Jesus answered her, ‘Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish.’ And her daughter was healed instantly.

Sermon

There are some Gospel stories that are comforting almost from the first sentence. And then there are others which make us shift uncomfortably in our seats. Today’s Gospel is definitely one of the latter.

A Canaanite woman comes to Jesus desperate for help. Her daughter is tormented. We aren’t told exactly what is wrong with her, and perhaps that doesn’t matter. What matters is that her mother is frightened for her and has reached the point where she will try anything.

She has heard about Jesus. So she cries out: “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.” And Jesus says nothing. That silence is difficult. Then the disciples get involved, and they are no help at all. “Send her away,” they say, “for she keeps shouting after us.”

Eventually Jesus speaks, but what he says hardly makes things easier. He tells her that he has been sent to the lost sheep of Israel. When she persists — “Lord, help me” — he replies with words that sound painfully harsh: “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

This is not the Jesus we are used to hearing. And I don’t think there is much point pretending otherwise. But we shouldn’t rush too quickly to explain the awkwardness away. Matthew has given us a difficult encounter, and perhaps we need to allow it to remain difficult for a while.

Because the woman does. She doesn’t storm off. She doesn’t give up. Nor does she meekly accept what has been said to her. Instead, she answers Jesus. “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.” It is a remarkable reply.

She takes the image Jesus has given her and turns it around. If there is a table, and if there is bread, then surely there is enough. Even the crumbs will do. She is so convinced of the goodness and abundance she has seen in Jesus that she refuses to believe there can be nothing for her daughter.

And Jesus responds: “Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish.” And her daughter is healed.

There are different ways Christians have understood this conversation over the centuries. Some have argued that Jesus is testing the woman, drawing out a faith he already knows is there. Others have taken the story more straightforwardly and suggested that we are seeing something genuinely unfolding in the encounter; that in his full humanity Jesus allows this woman’s persistence to push the boundaries of his mission into clearer view.

Whichever way we understand that difficult exchange, Matthew seems to want us to notice what happens here. A boundary is crossed. This woman is a Canaanite. That is not a casual detail. Matthew could simply have called her a Gentile, but he chooses an ancient name loaded with history. Canaanites were the old enemies of Israel. She is, religiously and ethnically, about as much an outsider as Matthew could make her. And yet she recognises something in Jesus.

She calls him “Lord” and “Son of David”. She kneels before him. She trusts him. And while the disciples — the insiders, the people who have been travelling with Jesus and listening to his teaching — want her sent away, this supposed outsider shows extraordinary faith. There is something wonderfully unsettling about that.

Because churches, like every other human community, become very good at deciding who belongs.

We may not say it aloud. Usually we don’t. But we develop our expectations. We know how church works. We know when to stand and sit. We know the prayers. We know where things are kept. We know which traditions matter and why. We know the stories behind decisions made fifteen or twenty years ago. And none of that is bad. Belonging to a community means acquiring a shared memory and a shared language.

The danger comes when we begin to confuse our familiarity with the Church with God’s ownership of the Church. Because they are not the same thing.

The disciples thought they knew who Jesus had come for. And, to be fair to them, there were good reasons for thinking it. Jesus himself speaks here about being sent to the lost sheep of Israel. But standing in front of them is a woman who doesn’t fit the expected pattern and who nevertheless has grasped something essential about God: there is enough mercy to go round. That is the heart of her argument. Even the crumbs are enough.

She has somehow understood the abundance of God before the disciples have fully understood it themselves. And perhaps that helps us make sense of the slightly strange passage immediately before this encounter.

Jesus has been arguing with the Pharisees about purity. They are concerned about what goes into the mouth, about eating with unwashed hands, about the boundaries between clean and unclean. Jesus turns the whole thing around. It is not what goes into the mouth that defiles, he says, but what comes out of it, because what comes out reveals what is going on in the heart.

And then, almost immediately, Jesus meets someone whom his religious world would have regarded as outside the boundaries. A Canaanite woman. And what comes out of her mouth? Faith. Courage. Persistence. Love for her daughter.

It is as though the story itself asks: who, then, is clean and who is unclean? Who is inside and who is outside? Who really understands what God is doing? The answer is not as obvious as the disciples imagined. And neither, perhaps, is it always as obvious as we imagine.

One of the great privileges of parish ministry is meeting people whose faith does not fit neatly into the boxes the Church sometimes creates. Someone says, “I’m not really religious, Vicar, but…” and then tells you about a prayer they have been saying every night for thirty years.

Someone who hardly ever enters a church building speaks with extraordinary tenderness about God. Someone arrives at a funeral, a baptism, a school service, a foodbank, a community event — somewhere around the edges of church life — and you suddenly realise that God has been at work in their life long before you arrived.

We need to be careful about deciding where faith is and where it isn’t, because God has a habit of turning up beyond the boundaries we have drawn for him.

Amen.

Sermon: The One Who Never Lets Us Go (9th Aug, 2026, Year A)

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The below is the text of the first sermon I gave this past weekend after being inducted and installed as the Vicar of Marsden and Slaithwaite with East Scammonden. It was shared as part of an all-benefice service at Upper Slaithwaite Church, known locally and lovingly as ‘Shred.’

Reading

Matthew 14.22–33 – Immediately he made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead to the other side, while he dismissed the crowds. And after he had dismissed the crowds, he went up the mountain by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone, but by this time the boat, battered by the waves, was far from the land, for the wind was against them. And early in the morning he came walking towards them on the lake. But when the disciples saw him walking on the lake, they were terrified, saying, ‘It is a ghost!’ And they cried out in fear. But immediately Jesus spoke to them and said, ‘Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.’ Peter answered him, ‘Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.’ He said, ‘Come.’ So Peter got out of the boat, started walking on the water, and came towards Jesus. But when he noticed the strong wind, he became frightened, and beginning to sink, he cried out, ‘Lord, save me!’ Jesus immediately reached out his hand and caught him, saying to him, ‘You of little faith, why did you doubt?’ When they got into the boat, the wind ceased. And those in the boat worshipped him, saying, ‘Truly you are the Son of God.’

Sermon

I had a wry smile to myself when I saw the Gospel reading for this morning’s service. Because there can hardly be a more fitting Gospel reading for a first Sunday with a new vicar than this one. Before you jump to conclusions, I’m not suggesting that becoming your new vicar is exactly like stepping onto a stormy sea. At least, I hope it isn’t! But there is something here that speaks powerfully to the beginning we are making together.

The story begins with Jesus sending the disciples out ahead of him. They are doing what he has asked, and yet they find themselves struggling. The boat is far from land, the wind is against them, and the journey has become exhausting.

I think that detail is worth sitting with for a moment, noticing the implication that following Jesus does not guarantee calm waters. But difficulty is not necessarily a sign that we have taken a wrong turn or that God has abandoned us. Sometimes we can be exactly where we have been called to be and still find the wind blowing against us.

Our lives, and indeed church life can be like that. We make plans, offer our gifts, say our prayers and try to be faithful, but things do not always unfold as we hoped. Congregations change. Familiar faces disappear and new ones appear. Money becomes tight. Buildings demand attention. New ideas do not always work. The world around us changes, and we are left wondering how the Church should respond.

And a new beginning brings its own questions. What will this new chapter be like? What might change? What will stay the same? Will we understand one another? Will the new vicar remember everybody’s name? Spoiler alert, I won’t. At least not immediately anyway. Hopefully there’s excitement about what lies ahead, but there may also be uncertainty. That is true for me as well as for you. New beginnings are rarely made up of confidence alone. Usually hope and nervousness arrive together.

But as we heard in our Gospel reading, into the middle of the disciples’ struggle, Jesus comes.

At first they do not recognise him. They see only a figure on the water, and they are terrified. The presence of Jesus is mistaken for some kind of threat. Perhaps that happens more often than we realise. God comes to us in unfamiliar circumstances, through unexpected people or in changes we would never have chosen for ourselves, and our first response is fear. We are so accustomed to looking for danger that we struggle to recognise God’s grace.

And so Jesus recognises this and speaks: “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.” He does not begin by explaining the storm. He does not tell the disciples why the wind is against them or how long it will last. He gives them something better: himself. “It is I.” I am here. You are not alone. The storm may be real, but so is my presence.

That is the promise at the heart of this new beginning. The future of these churches does not rest upon a new vicar arriving with all the answers. Which is fortunate, because I haven’t brought them. Nor does it rest upon any one person, however gifted or committed.

Our hope rests in Jesus Christ.

He has been present here long before I arrived. He has been at work through generations of prayer, worship, service and quiet faithfulness. He has been present in baptisms and weddings, at bedsides and funerals, in school assemblies, community gatherings and ordinary conversations. He has been present in moments of joy and in times when the wind seemed firmly against you.

And he is present now.

Peter hears the voice of Jesus and does something wonderfully brave and slightly reckless. “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” Jesus says, “Come.” So Peter steps out of the boat.

We often speak about stepping out in faith as though it means feeling completely confident. But Peter is not free from fear. He simply trusts the voice of Jesus enough to take the next step. Faith is not the absence of doubt or anxiety. Faith is deciding where to place our trust while those things are still present.

That matters as we begin our ministry together. I hope we will be willing to step out in faith. I hope we will ask what God may be calling us to do in Marsden, Slaithwaite and here at Shred. I hope we will be ready to try things, to welcome new people, to serve our communities and to share the love of Christ with generosity and confidence.

Some of what we try will flourish. Some of it may not. Occasionally we may discover, halfway through, that we have stepped out of the boat and have no clear idea what we are doing. But that is not necessarily failure. A church that never risks anything may remain safely inside the boat, but it will never discover what may become possible when Jesus says, “Come.”

Peter does walk on the water. Matthew is quite clear about that. For a few extraordinary moments, he does what should be impossible. Then he notices the wind. Of course he notices it. The wind is loud, the waves are high, and the boat is no longer beneath his feet. Fear takes hold and he begins to sink. “Lord, save me!” It is one of the shortest and most honest prayers in Scripture. There is no polished language and no attempt to appear composed. Peter simply cries out from his need.

And immediately Jesus reaches out his hand. Immediately. Jesus does not wait for Peter to recover his confidence. He does not demand a better explanation or a more impressive statement of faith. He catches him.

There will be times in the years ahead when our faith feels strong and the path seems clear. There will also be times when we notice the wind, lose confidence and wonder whether we have made a terrible mistake. As Bishop Smitha alluded to on Thursday night, there may be days when our prayer is little more than, “Lord, save us.”

The good news is that Christ does not abandon us in those moments. When faith falters, his faithfulness does not. When our grip weakens, his does not. Grace is not a reward for keeping ourselves above water. Grace is the hand that catches us when we cannot.

Jesus asks Peter, “Why did you doubt?” I do not hear that as a cruel rebuke. Jesus is holding Peter as he says it. It is less an accusation and more an invitation: Peter, you trusted me enough to step out. Could you also trust that I would not let you go?

That is a question for all of us.

Can we trust Christ enough to take the next step? Can we trust him when the future is exciting, and when it is uncertain? Can we trust him when our plans succeed, and when they need to be changed? Can we trust that even when we falter, he will still take hold of us?

When Jesus and Peter climb into the boat, the wind ceases. The disciples worship him and say, “Truly you are the Son of God.”

That is where this particular story ends: not with Peter’s bravery, nor with his failure, but with Jesus being recognised and worshipped. And that must be the purpose of our life together.

This new chapter is not about what I will do, what you will do, or even about what we will achieve together. It is about learning to recognise Jesus in our midst. It is about worshipping him, following him and helping others to discover that his love is very real.

I come among you with hope and excitement. I also come knowing that I have much to learn: about these churches, these communities, and each and every one of you. We will need patience with one another. We will sometimes see things differently. There will be moments of courage and moments of doubt.

But we do not make this journey alone.

Christ comes to us across the water. He speaks through the noise of the wind: “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.”

He calls us out of the places where we have grown comfortable. He invites us to trust him. And when we begin to sink—as, from time to time, we surely will—he reaches out his hand.

So, as we begin this new chapter together, let us listen for his voice. Let us be honest about our fears but not ruled by them. Let us be patient with our doubts but not imprisoned by them. Let us be ready, when Christ calls, to step out together in faith.

And whether the water is calm or the wind is against us, may we keep our eyes fixed upon Jesus, the one who calls us, catches us and will never let us go.

Amen.

Sermon: Not Peace But A Sword (21st Jun, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Genesis 21.8–21: The child grew, and was weaned; and Abraham made a great feast on the day that Isaac was weaned. But Sarah saw the son of Hagar the Egyptian, whom she had borne to Abraham, playing with her son Isaac.So she said to Abraham, ‘Cast out this slave woman with her son; for the son of this slave woman shall not inherit along with my son Isaac.’ The matter was very distressing to Abraham on account of his son. But God said to Abraham, ‘Do not be distressed because of the boy and because of your slave woman; whatever Sarah says to you, do as she tells you, for it is through Isaac that offspring shall be named after you. As for the son of the slave woman, I will make a nation of him also, because he is your offspring.’ So Abraham rose early in the morning, and took bread and a skin of water, and gave it to Hagar, putting it on her shoulder, along with the child, and sent her away. And she departed, and wandered about in the wilderness of Beer-sheba. When the water in the skin was gone, she cast the child under one of the bushes. Then she went and sat down opposite him a good way off, about the distance of a bowshot; for she said, ‘Do not let me look on the death of the child.’ And as she sat opposite him, she lifted up her voice and wept. And God heard the voice of the boy; and the angel of God called to Hagar from heaven, and said to her, ‘What troubles you, Hagar? Do not be afraid; for God has heard the voice of the boy where he is. Come, lift up the boy and hold him fast with your hand, for I will make a great nation of him.’ Then God opened her eyes, and she saw a well of water. She went, and filled the skin with water, and gave the boy a drink. God was with the boy, and he grew up; he lived in the wilderness, and became an expert with the bow. He lived in the wilderness of Paran; and his mother got a wife for him from the land of Egypt.

Matthew 10.24–39: Jesus said to the twelve, ‘A disciple is not above the teacher, nor a slave above the master; it is enough for the disciple to be like the teacher, and the slave like the master. If they have called the master of the house Beelzebul, how much more will they malign those of his household! ‘So have no fear of them; for nothing is covered up that will not be uncovered, and nothing secret that will not become known. What I say to you in the dark, tell in the light; and what you hear whispered, proclaim from the housetops. Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul; rather fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell.Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground unperceived by your Father. And even the hairs of your head are all counted. So do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows. ‘Everyone therefore who acknowledges me before others, I also will acknowledge before my Father in heaven; but whoever denies me before others, I also will deny before my Father in heaven. ‘Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I have come to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law; and one’s foes will be members of one’s own household. Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever does not take up the cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.’

Sermon

In today’s Gospel, Jesus says some things that can make us feel uncomfortable.

Not least, “Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.”

Those words do not sound like the Jesus we often picture. We are more used to hearing about loving our neighbours, turning the other cheek, and being peacemakers. So what does Jesus mean?

To understand this passage, we need to remember its context. Jesus is sending out his disciples. He is preparing them for the reality of following him. He is not promising them an easy life. Instead, he tells them the truth: following Christ can be costly.

The German pastor and theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer famously wrote about the difference between “cheap grace” and “costly grace” in his book The Cost of Discipleship. Cheap grace, he said, is grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ. It is the idea that faith remains only a comfort, without ever asking anything of us.

But costly grace is different. Costly grace is still grace — still God’s free gift of love and mercy — but it calls us to truly follow Christ. It forgives us, but also changes us. It comforts us, but also summons us. It welcomes us as we are, but does not simply leave us as we are.

Bonhoeffer’s understanding was not merely theoretical. As a pastor in Germany during the rise of the Nazi regime, he refused to remain silent in the face of injustice and persecution. He became part of the Confessing Church, which resisted attempts to bring the Church under Nazi control, and he spoke out against the treatment of Jewish people and other victims of the regime. Eventually he was arrested and imprisoned, and in the final weeks of the Second World War he was executed by the Nazis. Bonhoeffer understood that following Christ could come at a tremendous cost, yet he believed that discipleship demanded faithfulness even when the consequences were severe. His life stands as a powerful reminder that the call to follow Jesus is not always safe or comfortable, but it is always worth answering.

Of course, not many of us will find ourselves in similar circumstances to Bonhoeffer’s. Nevertheless, that is very close to what Jesus is saying in this Gospel. The disciples are about to carry the good news into a world that will not always welcome it. They will face opposition, misunderstanding, and rejection. Some will be mocked. Some will be persecuted. Some will lose relationships that matter deeply to them.

It’s important to note that Jesus is not creating conflict for its own sake. Rather, he is acknowledging that the values of God’s kingdom often challenge the values of the world. When people commit themselves to truth, justice, mercy, forgiveness, and love, not everyone responds positively. Sometimes the very decision to follow Christ creates tension.

Many Christians throughout history have known this reality. The first disciples certainly did. Dietrich Bonhoeffer knew it. The saints knew it. Even today, countless Christians around the world face discrimination, imprisonment, or violence because of their faith.

Yet alongside these very difficult warnings comes a message of extraordinary reassurance.

Three times in this passage Jesus says, in one form or another, “Do not be afraid.” The most often repeated phrase in the Bible.

“Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul.”

“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father.”

“Even the hairs of your head are all counted.”

Jesus does not deny the existence of danger. He does not pretend suffering is not real. But he tells his disciples that they are held securely in God’s love and care.

The image of the sparrows is especially beautiful. In Jesus’ day sparrows were among the cheapest birds sold in the marketplace. They were considered insignificant. Yet Jesus says that not one of them falls without God knowing. If God notices every sparrow, how much more does God notice each one of us?

In a world where people can feel overlooked, forgotten, or insignificant, Jesus reminds us that we are known and valued by God. Not in a general or abstract way, but personally. God knows us completely.

That theme links wonderfully with our reading from Genesis. The story of Hagar and Ishmael is not an easy one. They are cast out into the wilderness. They find themselves alone, vulnerable, and desperate. Hagar believes death is near. She cannot bear to watch her son suffer. It is one of the Bible’s most painful scenes. Yet it is precisely there, in the wilderness, that God meets them. God hears the cry of the child. God speaks to Hagar. God opens her eyes to see a well of water. God provides for them and remains with them as Ishmael grows.

It is a story about people who might easily have been forgotten. Cast aside by others. Left on the margins. But they are not forgotten by God. Just as Jesus says that not one sparrow falls unnoticed, Genesis reminds us that no person suffers unnoticed. God sees Hagar. God hears Ishmael. God provides hope when all hope seems lost.

That is good news for all of us. There are times when we may feel as though we are wandering through our own wildernesses. Times of grief. Illness. Anxiety. Loneliness. Times when the future feels uncertain and we cannot see where help will come from. The promise we are given is not that such wildernesses will never come. Rather, it is that God is present within them.

So, today’s readings invite us to hold together these two truths.

First, following Jesus is not always easy. Faithfulness may sometimes be costly.

But second, we need not be afraid. The God who saw Hagar in the wilderness, the God who heard Ishmael’s cry, the God who notices every sparrow, is the same God who knows and loves each one of us.

Whatever challenges we face, whatever wilderness we may be travelling through, we do not walk alone. For we belong to the God who sees, the God who hears, and the God who never lets us go.

Amen.

Reflection: Public and Private Faith (17th Jun, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

2 Kings 2.1, 6–14: Now when the Lord was about to take Elijah up to heaven by a whirlwind, Elijah and Elisha were on their way from Gilgal. Then Elijah said to him, ‘Stay here; for the Lord has sent me to the Jordan.’ But he said, ‘As the Lord lives, and as you yourself live, I will not leave you.’ So the two of them went on. Fifty men of the company of prophets also went, and stood at some distance from them, as they both were standing by the Jordan. Then Elijah took his mantle and rolled it up, and struck the water; the water was parted to the one side and to the other, until the two of them crossed on dry ground. When they had crossed, Elijah said to Elisha, ‘Tell me what I may do for you, before I am taken from you.’ Elisha said, ‘Please let me inherit a double share of your spirit.’ He responded, ‘You have asked a hard thing; yet, if you see me as I am being taken from you, it will be granted you; if not, it will not.’ As they continued walking and talking, a chariot of fire and horses of fire separated the two of them, and Elijah ascended in a whirlwind into heaven. Elisha kept watching and crying out, ‘Father, father! The chariots of Israel and its horsemen!’ But when he could no longer see him, he grasped his own clothes and tore them in two pieces. He picked up the mantle of Elijah that had fallen from him, and went back and stood on the bank of the Jordan. He took the mantle of Elijah that had fallen from him, and struck the water, saying, ‘Where is the Lord, the God of Elijah?’ When he had struck the water, the water was parted to the one side and to the other, and Elisha went over.

Matthew 6.1–6, 16–18: ‘Beware of practising your piety before others in order to be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven.‘So whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, so that they may be praised by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your alms may be done in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.‘And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. ‘And whenever you fast, do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces so as to show others that they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that your fasting may be seen not by others but by your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

Reflection

The story from 2 Kings is one of the most memorable in the Old Testament. Elijah, the great prophet, is coming to the end of his earthly ministry. Elisha refuses to leave his side. He follows him faithfully from place to place, and when Elijah is finally taken from him in a whirlwind, Elisha picks up the prophet’s fallen cloak and continues the work that God has given him to do.

It is a dramatic scene. There are prophets watching. The Jordan is divided. The mantle changes hands. It would be difficult to imagine anything more visible or spectacular.

Then we turn to the words of Jesus in Matthew’s Gospel, and at first they seem to pull us in a very different direction. Jesus says: when you give alms, do not sound a trumpet before you. When you pray, do not stand on street corners to be seen by others. When you fast, do not make a show of your suffering. Instead, go into your room and pray in secret. Wash your face. Let your devotion be known to your Father in heaven rather than displayed for human applause.

Jesus is not saying that faith should always be private. After all, he himself taught publicly, healed publicly, and called people to follow him openly. Rather, he is asking a deeper question: for whose benefit are we doing these things? Are we seeking God’s glory, or our own? Are we trying to draw closer to God, or simply hoping to be noticed by other people?

Elijah and Elisha offer an answer to that question. Although Elijah’s departure is spectacular, neither he nor Elisha seeks attention for its own sake. Elisha’s request is not for status or recognition but for “a double share” of Elijah’s spirit – not double honour, but the spiritual resources needed to serve faithfully. When he picks up Elijah’s cloak and strikes the waters of the Jordan, it is not a performance. It is an act of trust, a continuation of God’s work.

Perhaps that is the challenge and encouragement for us today. The Christian life is not about cultivating an image of holiness. It is not about appearing prayerful, generous or devout. Instead, it is about quiet faithfulness: the prayers whispered when no one else hears; the acts of kindness that nobody notices; the sacrifices made without recognition; the steady obedience that picks up the cloak of discipleship day after day.

Most of the time, the kingdom of God advances not through whirlwinds and spectacles, but through ordinary people who love God sincerely and seek to serve him faithfully.

And yet, whether our calling places us in moments of public visibility or hidden service, the same question remains: who are we doing it for?

May we seek not the praise of others, but the reward of knowing God more deeply. And may we, like Elisha, take up the calling entrusted to us with humility, courage and trust, knowing that the God who was with Elijah remains with his people still.

Amen.