Sermon: Pentecost (24th May, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Acts 2.1–21 – When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability. Now there were devout Jews from every nation under heaven living in Jerusalem. And at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each. Amazed and astonished, they asked, ‘Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language? Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, Cretans and Arabs—in our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power.’ All were amazed and perplexed, saying to one another, ‘What does this mean?’ But others sneered and said, ‘They are filled with new wine.’ But Peter, standing with the eleven, raised his voice and addressed them: ‘Men of Judea and all who live in Jerusalem, let this be known to you, and listen to what I say. Indeed, these are not drunk, as you suppose, for it is only nine o’clock in the morning. No, this is what was spoken through the prophet Joel:
“In the last days it will be, God declares,
that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh,
   and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy,
and your young men shall see visions,
   and your old men shall dream dreams.
Even upon my slaves, both men and women,
   in those days I will pour out my Spirit;
     and they shall prophesy.
And I will show portents in the heaven above
   and signs on the earth below,
     blood, and fire, and smoky mist.
The sun shall be turned to darkness
   and the moon to blood,
     before the coming of the Lord’s great and glorious day.
Then everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.”

John 20.19–23 – When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, ‘Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.’ When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.’

Sermon

Pentecost is often described as the birthday of the Church. It is the day when frightened and uncertain disciples become something new: people filled with the life and power of the Holy Spirit. But if we listen carefully to the story from Acts, we discover that Pentecost is not only about power. It is also about welcome. It is about barriers falling. It is about people hearing, perhaps for the first time, that the good news of God includes them.

The scene in Acts begins with uncertainty. The disciples are gathered together in one place, waiting, unsure what comes next. And then suddenly, there is wind. Fire. Noise. Energy. The Holy Spirit arrives not quietly, not privately, but publicly and dramatically.

And what happens first? Not preaching. Not organising. Not building structures (or maintaining them!) What happens first is that people understand one another. And I think that’s really important to notice.

The miracle of Pentecost is not that everybody suddenly speaks the same language. The miracle is that each person hears in their own language. Parthians, Medes, Elamites, visitors from Rome, Egypt, Libya, Cappadocia; all these different people hear the disciples speaking “about God’s deeds of power” in ways they can understand.

The Holy Spirit does not erase difference. The Holy Spirit speaks through difference. That is a profoundly important thing for the Church to remember.

Sometimes Christians have behaved as though unity means sameness. As though belonging depends upon fitting a particular mould, speaking with a particular voice, presenting yourself in a particular way. But Pentecost tells another story entirely. At Pentecost, God does not ask the crowd to become identical before they can receive grace. Instead, God meets them exactly where they are in exactly who they are: in their own language. In their own experience. In their own lives. And perhaps that matters especially today, in a fractious and contested world.

Because many Christians know what it feels like to stand in a crowd and wonder whether the Church truly speaks a language they can hear as good news. Many know what it is to fear that faith communities may demand silence, disguise, or distance before welcome can be offered. Some have experienced churches where difference was treated not as something through which God might work, but as a problem to overcome.

Yet Pentecost pushes against all of that. The Spirit descends not upon one kind of person, but upon a diverse and bewilderingly mixed crowd. The Spirit does not narrow the family of God. The Spirit expands it.

And Peter, trying to explain what is happening, reaches for the words of the prophet Joel: “I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh.” All flesh.

Not some flesh. Not approved flesh. Not people who fit neatly into categories flesh. All flesh.

There is something gloriously expansive about that promise. God’s Spirit poured out extravagantly upon humanity in all its variety and complexity. Sons and daughters. Young and old. Men and women. People across all the boundaries that society constantly tries to police and reinforce.

The movement of the Spirit in Acts is always outward. Again and again in the book of Acts, the Spirit pushes the Church beyond the limits it would otherwise choose for itself. Beyond fear. Beyond prejudice. Beyond assumptions about who belongs.

And that movement begins here, at Pentecost.

Of course, the reality is that many people still live behind locked doors. That is where the Gospel reading meets us. In John’s Gospel, the disciples are hiding. The doors are locked because of fear. Fear has enclosed them. Fear has made their world smaller.

And yet Jesus comes anyway. The locked doors do not stop him.

That detail matters deeply. Because there are many kinds of locked doors. Some are external: rejection, hostility, exclusion. Some are internal: shame, anxiety, fear of being known fully. Many people have lived and still live with both.

But the risen Christ walks through locked doors. He comes into places of fear and says, “Peace be with you.”

He doesn’t come with condemnation. He doesn’t come with suspicion. He doesn’t come to interrogate. He comes to bring peace.

And then he breathes the Holy Spirit upon them. It is a deeply intimate image. The breath of God filling frightened people with new life. The same Spirit that rushes like wind through the house at Pentecost is here given quietly, personally, lovingly, to people who are afraid. That too is good news.

Because the Holy Spirit is not given only to the confident or the certain or the publicly triumphant. The Spirit is also given to those still hiding. To those still healing. To those still wondering whether there is room for them in the story of God. And the answer Pentecost gives is a resounding and unequivocal yes.

Yes, because the Spirit speaks every language. Yes, because the Spirit crosses every barrier. Yes, because the Spirit is poured out upon all flesh.

The Church is at its most faithful not when it builds higher walls, but when it opens wider doors. Not when it fears difference, but when it recognises that the image of God is reflected through the rich diversity of humanity God has created and loves.

That does not mean difference disappears. Pentecost is noisy precisely because diversity remains. Different voices are still speaking. Different histories and identities still exist. But somehow, through the work of the Spirit, communion becomes possible.

And that is what we celebrate at this table.

A Eucharist where none of us comes because we are flawless. None of us comes because we have everything figured out. None of us comes because we have earned our place. We come because Christ invites us. We come because the Spirit gathers us. We come because the love of God is wider than human fear.

At Pentecost, the Church discovers its voice. And its first words are words that people from every background can hear as good news. May we be that kind of Church still.

A Church where people hear grace in their own language. A Church where locked doors are not the end of the story. A Church courageous enough to believe that when God says “all flesh,” God truly means all flesh.

In the name of God, who is creator, redeemer and life-giving Holy Spirt. Amen.

Sermon: Endings and Beginnings (17th May, 2026, Year A)

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Acts 1.6–14 – So when they had come together, they asked him, ‘Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?’ He replied, ‘It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority. But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.’ When he had said this, as they were watching, he was lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight. While he was going and they were gazing up towards heaven, suddenly two men in white robes stood by them. They said, ‘Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up towards heaven? This Jesus, who has been taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same way as you saw him go into heaven.’ Then they returned to Jerusalem from the mount called Olivet, which is near Jerusalem, a sabbath day’s journey away. When they had entered the city, they went to the room upstairs where they were staying, Peter, and John, and James, and Andrew, Philip and Thomas, Bartholomew and Matthew, James son of Alphaeus, and Simon the Zealot, and Judas son of James. All these were constantly devoting themselves to prayer, together with certain women, including Mary the mother of Jesus, as well as his brothers.

John 17.1–11 – After Jesus had spoken these words, he looked up to heaven and said, ‘Father, the hour has come; glorify your Son so that the Son may glorify you, since you have given him authority over all people, to give eternal life to all whom you have given him. And this is eternal life, that they may know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent. I glorified you on earth by finishing the work that you gave me to do. So now, Father, glorify me in your own presence with the glory that I had in your presence before the world existed. ‘I have made your name known to those whom you gave me from the world. They were yours, and you gave them to me, and they have kept your word. Now they know that everything you have given me is from you; for the words that you gave to me I have given to them, and they have received them and know in truth that I came from you; and they have believed that you sent me. I am asking on their behalf; I am not asking on behalf of the world, but on behalf of those whom you gave me, because they are yours. All mine are yours, and yours are mine; and I have been glorified in them. And now I am no longer in the world, but they are in the world, and I am coming to you. Holy Father, protect them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one, as we are one.

Sermon

In the days between Ascension and Pentecost, we find ourselves in an unusual place. The risen Christ has now ascended to the Father. Pentecost, when the Holy Spirit descends to us, has not yet arrived. The disciples are waiting. Praying. Wondering what comes next.

Perhaps you know what waiting and not knowing what comes next feels like. Indeed, I think many of us know what it feels like to live in between things. Between endings and beginnings. Between uncertainty and clarity. Between prayer and fulfilment. Between what God has done and what God might be about to do.

The disciples in our reading from Acts are standing in precisely that place. Jesus has ascended from their sight. The angels tell them not to stand looking into heaven forever, and so they return to Jerusalem. And what do they do there? They pray. Not strategically. Not triumphantly. Not with some perfect understanding of what’s gone on. They simply gather together faithfully and devote themselves to prayer.

It is our gospel reading from John that helps us understand how they are able to do that. Because in John 17 we overhear something extraordinary: Jesus praying for his disciples.

This chapter of John’s gospel is sometimes called the High Priestly Prayer. It comes just before Jesus goes out into the garden at Gethsemane, before his arrest and crucifixion. In other words, these are among the last words Jesus speaks before the cross. And remarkably, he spends those moments praying not for himself alone, but for those whom the Father has given him.

“I am asking on their behalf.” There is something deeply moving about Jesus’ words. The disciples are confused. Before long they will fail Jesus, scatter, deny him, abandon him. They do not fully understand who he is or what lies ahead. And yet Jesus prays for them lovingly and faithfully. Not once do we hear irritation in his voice. Not once does he speak as though the disciples are a disappointment. Instead, he entrusts them to the Father’s care.

“Holy Father, protect them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one, as we are one.” That prayer really matters because the disciples are about to face a world that will test them. The protection Jesus speaks about is not protection from difficulty or suffering. After all, many of those disciples will go on to endure persecution and martyrdom. Rather, Jesus prays that they will be kept faithful. Kept united. Kept within the life of God.

And perhaps that is important for us to hear too. We sometimes imagine that faithfulness becomes easier once we have enough certainty, enough confidence, enough answers. But the disciples do not have those things yet. At this point, they are still waiting. Still uncertain. Still praying together in an upstairs room. And yet Jesus already calls them his own.

That is one of the great comforts of this passage: the security of Christ’s Church does not ultimately rest upon the strength of the disciples; it does nor rest upon our strength; it rests upon the faithfulness of Christ. The Church exists because Christ holds it, prays for it, and entrusts it to the Father.

That matters in every age, but perhaps especially now. We live in a time when the Church often feels fragile. We worry about numbers of the faithful and of our resources. We sometimes feel uncertain about the future. Society itself is increasingly fragmented and anxious. And into that reality comes the prayer of Jesus: “Holy Father, protect them… so that they may be one.”

Notice that unity sits at the heart of Christ’s prayer. Not uniformity. Not everyone becoming identical. The disciples themselves were certainly not identical people. But they were called into a shared life rooted in God.

Christian unity is not about always agreeing with one another or avoiding conflict. It is about sharing together in the life and love of God himself. The unity of the Church is meant to reflect something of the unity between the Father and the Son.

And that means unity is not a superficial thing. Crucially, it means that unity is God’s gift to us before it becomes our holy work. Every act of patience. Every moment of forgiveness. Every refusal to caricature or dismiss another person. Every decision to remain together when it would be easier not to; all of these become part of the answer to Christ’s prayer. Because unity is not something we manufacture by ourselves. It is something we are continually drawn back into by God’s grace.

And perhaps that is why the disciples, after the Ascension, devote themselves to prayer. Prayer keeps them together. Prayer teaches them dependence upon one another. Prayer creates space for the coming of the Spirit. Before the Church can become active, it first must become prayerful.

That is striking because we often prefer activity to waiting. We want plans, movement, visible progress. Yet these days between Ascension and Pentecost remind us that the Church is not sustained simply by energy or efficiency. The Church lives by remaining close to Christ. And that closeness is sustained through prayer.

Not polished prayer. Not impressive prayer. Just faithful prayer. The kind of prayer that says: “Lord, we do not fully know what comes next. But we are still here. Still listening. Still waiting upon you.”

And perhaps that is where these readings meet us today.

Some of us may be carrying uncertainty. Some may feel caught between stages of life. Some may be waiting for guidance, strength, healing, or hope. The good news of this Sunday is that Christ prays for his people even in the waiting.

Before the disciples preach, before Pentecost comes, before the Church bursts into life, Jesus already holds them in love. And he holds us too. The ascended Christ has not abandoned his Church. He intercedes for it still.

And so, like those first disciples, we continue together: praying, waiting, trusting, and learning again that our life rests safely in the hands of God.

Amen.

A reflection following elections in the UK on the 7th May

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Following last week’s local elections in England, along with elections in the Welsh Senedd and the Scottish Parliament, there is a particular sadness in recognising how divided we have become.

The results of last week’s elections across the United Kingdom revealed not simply changing political loyalties, but a deeper mood within the nation: frustration, weariness, anger, distrust and, in many places, a profound sense that people no longer feel heard. The elections saw significant losses for both Labour and Conservative candidates, alongside major gains for smaller parties including Reform UK and the Greens. Commentators have spoken of the increasing fragmentation of British politics and the collapse of old certainties.

Of course, Christians will hold differing political convictions. Faithful discipleship does not require uniformity of political opinion, nor should the Church ever become the mouthpiece of a single party or ideology. Yet moments like these do force us to ask difficult questions about the kind of society we are becoming.

Public life increasingly feels shaped by suspicion and hostility. Debate hardens into contempt. Opponents become enemies. Social media rewards outrage over understanding. Fear becomes easier to stir than hope. Many people now carry a lingering sense of unease about the future of the country, the stability of communities and the possibility of genuine common life together.

Into such a climate, the words of Jesus in John 17 that the Church of England will reflect upon this coming Sunday (17th of May) speak with remarkable clarity and urgency.

On the night before his crucifixion, Jesus prays for his disciples. And at the heart of that prayer is a plea for unity:

“That they may all be one.”

This is not a call for bland agreement or the erasure of difference. Christian unity has never meant uniformity. The disciples themselves were strikingly different people: impulsive and cautious, political and apolitical, faithful and fearful. Yet Christ calls them together into something deeper than preference or ideology. He calls them into communion rooted in him.

That matters enormously.

Because the unity Jesus prays for is not simply about the internal life of the Church. It is part of the Church’s witness to the world. Jesus continues:

“So that the world may believe.”

In other words, the credibility of Christian witness is tied, in part, to whether we are capable of loving one another across our differences.

That is challenging enough within the Church itself. But it also speaks into the wider culture in which we live. Christians are called to resist the temptation to mirror the divisions around us. We are not called to deepen hostility, baptise tribalism or retreat into ideological camps where we only speak to those who already agree with us.

Instead, Christians are called to be people of reconciliation.

That does not mean avoiding difficult conversations or pretending disagreements do not matter. It does not mean abandoning conviction. But it does mean recognising the humanity of those with whom we differ. It means listening carefully. Speaking truthfully and graciously. Refusing to delight in outrage. Refusing to reduce people to caricatures.

And perhaps most importantly, it means remembering that our deepest identity is not ultimately found in political tribes, national anxieties or cultural battles, but in Christ himself.

That is particularly important in moments of social uncertainty. When people feel anxious or unheard, division can become very seductive. It offers simple explanations, easy scapegoats and the comforting illusion that all problems are caused by “them.” History repeatedly shows how dangerous that can become.

The Church must offer something better.

Not naïve optimism. Not political withdrawal. But a different way of being human together.

The unity Jesus prays for is costly. It is shaped by forgiveness, humility, patience and sacrifice. It is the kind of unity only possible through grace. And it stands in sharp contrast to a culture increasingly tempted towards anger and fragmentation.

In the coming weeks, there will no doubt be endless analysis of electoral swings, party strategy and leadership crises. Much of that matters. Politics matters because people matter. Decisions made in councils and parliaments shape real lives and real communities.

But beneath the headlines lies a deeper spiritual question: what kind of people are we becoming?

As Christians, we are called to answer that question not simply with words, but with lives shaped by Christ’s prayer “that they may all be one.”

In an anxious and divided age, that calling may be more important than ever.

Sermon: I Will Not Leave You Orphaned (10th May, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Acts 17.22–31 – Then Paul stood in front of the Areopagus and said, ‘Athenians, I see how extremely religious you are in every way. For as I went through the city and looked carefully at the objects of your worship, I found among them an altar with the inscription, “To an unknown god.” What therefore you worship as unknown, this I proclaim to you. The God who made the world and everything in it, he who is Lord of heaven and earth, does not live in shrines made by human hands, nor is he served by human hands, as though he needed anything, since he himself gives to all mortals life and breath and all things. From one ancestor he made all nations to inhabit the whole earth, and he allotted the times of their existence and the boundaries of the places where they would live, so that they would search for God and perhaps grope for him and find him—though indeed he is not far from each one of us. For “In him we live and move and have our being”; as even some of your own poets have said, “For we too are his offspring.” Since we are God’s offspring, we ought not to think that the deity is like gold, or silver, or stone, an image formed by the art and imagination of mortals. While God has overlooked the times of human ignorance, now he commands all people everywhere to repent, because he has fixed a day on which he will have the world judged in righteousness by a man whom he has appointed, and of this he has given assurance to all by raising him from the dead.’

John 14.15–21 – ‘If you love me, you will keep my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you for ever. This is the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him nor knows him. You know him, because he abides with you, and he will be in you. ‘I will not leave you orphaned; I am coming to you. In a little while the world will no longer see me, but you will see me; because I live, you also will live. On that day you will know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you. They who have my commandments and keep them are those who love me; and those who love me will be loved by my Father, and I will love them and reveal myself to them.’

Sermon

There are moments in life when absence is felt very sharply. A loved one leaves the room. A familiar voice falls silent. A season of life comes to an end. And even when we know that change is necessary, there is still a sense of uncertainty: What happens now? Who will guide us? How will we manage without them?

That is very much the atmosphere surrounding today’s gospel reading from Gospel of John. Jesus is preparing his disciples for his departure. These chapters of John’s gospel are intimate and tender. The disciples know that something is changing, even if they do not yet fully understand what. Jesus has spoken of betrayal, denial, suffering and death. Their world is beginning to wobble beneath their feet.

And into that uncertainty Jesus says: “I will not leave you orphaned.”

It is an extraordinarily gentle promise. Not: I will make everything easy. Not: You will never struggle. Not even: You will always understand what God is doing. But: I will not leave you alone. That promise sits at the heart of today’s gospel.

Jesus also speaks about love and commandments, but not in the sense of cold rule-keeping. “If you love me, you will keep my commandments,” he says. In John’s gospel, the commandment above all others is this: to love as Christ has loved. The obedience Jesus speaks about is not mechanical obedience. It is the natural shape of a relationship rooted in love.

We can probably recognise the difference instinctively. There is a world of difference between doing something merely because we are forced to and doing something because we love someone deeply. Love changes the character of obedience. It transforms duty into devotion.

And then Jesus speaks of “another Advocate,” the Spirit of truth. The word “Advocate” can also mean comforter, helper, companion, encourager. Jesus promises that the Holy Spirit will continue his presence among the disciples. Christ may no longer be physically beside them in the same way, but God will remain profoundly close to them.

That matters because the Christian life is not simply about trying harder to be good people. It is about God dwelling with us and within us. “I am in my Father,” Jesus says, “and you in me, and I in you.” This is not distant religion. It is relationship. Communion. Participation in the life of God.

And perhaps that is where today’s reading from Acts of the Apostles becomes especially illuminating. Paul stands in Athens surrounded by altars, philosophies and competing visions of truth. He notices even an altar “To an unknown god.” The Athenians are searching. Reaching out. Trying somehow to name what they cannot quite grasp.

Paul does not begin by condemning them for that longing. Instead, he begins with recognition. He sees their hunger for God. And then he declares that the God they are searching for is not distant after all. “He is not far from each one of us.”

That line could almost stand as a commentary on today’s gospel. The God revealed in Jesus Christ is not remote or hidden away in some inaccessible heaven. God is near. God is active. God is present through the Holy Spirit.

Sometimes we imagine faith means managing to climb our way up to God. But the gospel tells a different story. Again and again, God is the one who comes towards us first.

That is the pattern of Easter.

The risen Christ comes to frightened disciples behind locked doors. The risen Christ walks alongside confused travellers on the road to Emmaus. And now, before his ascension, Christ promises that his presence will continue through the Spirit. “I will not leave you orphaned.”

For the Church, that promise has always mattered enormously. Because there are many times when Christians have felt uncertain or overwhelmed. The early disciples certainly did. After the ascension, they could no longer rely on simply turning around and physically seeing Jesus beside them. They would have to learn what it meant to trust the Spirit’s guidance.

The Church in every age has had to learn the same lesson. And so do we.

There are times when God can seem obvious and close. And there are other times when faith feels quieter and harder. Times when prayer feels dry. Times when the future is unclear. Times when the Church itself feels fragile or anxious.

Yet the promise of Christ remains unchanged. Not abandoned. Not orphaned. Not alone. The Spirit of God continues to work; sometimes dramatically, but often gently and quietly.

In courage that arrives when we thought we had none left. In forgiveness that softens a hardened heart. In compassion shown to a neighbour. In worship, sacrament and prayer. In moments of unexpected peace. In the steady faithfulness of ordinary Christian life. Very often, the Spirit’s work is less like a lightning bolt and more like breath: unseen, but life-giving.

And perhaps that image of breath is helpful in Eastertide. Breath sustains us constantly, even when we barely notice it. Most of the time we are not consciously thinking about breathing at all. Yet every moment of life depends upon it.

So too with the presence of God. The Spirit quietly sustains the Church, generation after generation. Quietly sustains our faith. Quietly draws us back towards Christ again and again. And this matters not only for us individually, but for the world.

In Athens, Paul proclaims that all people ultimately live within the reality of God: “In him we live and move and have our being.” The gospel is not about escaping the world, but about discovering God already at work within it.

That means Christians are called to live as people attentive to God’s presence; in our communities, in our relationships, in our care for one another, and in our witness to Christ. Because if God is not far from each one of us, then no person is beyond the reach of his love.

And perhaps that is finally where today’s gospel leads us: not simply towards reassurance, but towards confidence. The disciples are anxious about losing Jesus. Yet Jesus is preparing them not for abandonment, but for mission. The Spirit will enable them to continue Christ’s work in the world. And the same is true for the Church today.

We do not follow a dead teacher preserved only in memory. We follow the risen Christ, who continues to dwell with his people through the Holy Spirit. The Church lives because Christ is alive.

And so, even amid uncertainty, the words of Jesus still speak with quiet power: “I will not leave you orphaned.”

Amen.

Reflection: Abide In My Love (7th May, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Acts 15.7–21 – After there had been much debate, Peter stood up and said to them, ‘My brothers, you know that in the early days God made a choice among you, that I should be the one through whom the Gentiles would hear the message of the good news and become believers. And God, who knows the human heart, testified to them by giving them the Holy Spirit, just as he did to us; and in cleansing their hearts by faith he has made no distinction between them and us. Now therefore why are you putting God to the test by placing on the neck of the disciples a yoke that neither our ancestors nor we have been able to bear? On the contrary, we believe that we will be saved through the grace of the Lord Jesus, just as they will.’ The whole assembly kept silence, and listened to Barnabas and Paul as they told of all the signs and wonders that God had done through them among the Gentiles. After they finished speaking, James replied, ‘My brothers, listen to me. Simeon has related how God first looked favourably on the Gentiles, to take from among them a people for his name. This agrees with the words of the prophets, as it is written, “After this I will return, and I will rebuild the dwelling of David, which has fallen; from its ruins I will rebuild it, and I will set it up, so that all other peoples may seek the Lord— even all the Gentiles over whom my name has been called. Thus says the Lord, who has been making these things known from long ago.” Therefore I have reached the decision that we should not trouble those Gentiles who are turning to God, but we should write to them to abstain only from things polluted by idols and from fornication and from whatever has been strangled and from blood. For in every city, for generations past, Moses has had those who proclaim him, for he has been read aloud every sabbath in the synagogues.’

John 15.9–11 – As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love. I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.

Reflection

In both of today’s readings, there is a question quietly sitting beneath the surface: who belongs? In Acts, the early Church is wrestling with whether Gentile believers must first become culturally Jewish before they can fully belong to the people of God. It is not simply an abstract theological debate. It is about identity, tradition, and fear. The Church is growing quickly, and growth often brings uncertainty with it. People begin asking: how do we hold on to what matters? What are the boundaries? What is essential?

Into that discussion, Peter stands and reminds the assembly of something important: God has already acted. God has given the Holy Spirit to Gentile believers just as he did to Jewish believers. God “made no distinction between them.” Before the Church had settled its arguments, before committees and councils had reached their conclusions, God had already poured out grace. That is often the way with God. We spend time drawing lines, while God is already opening doors. And then James speaks with wisdom and gentleness. The decision of the council is not to burden these new believers with unnecessary weight. They are not to be crushed beneath expectations they cannot carry. Instead, the Church seeks a way forward that protects fellowship, honours one another, and keeps the heart of the gospel clear.

And then we hear Jesus in John’s gospel saying: “As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love.” At first glance, these readings may seem quite different — one about church disagreement, the other about love and joy. But they belong together more closely than we might think. Because the question in Acts is ultimately this: will the Church remain rooted in the love of Christ, or will it become rooted in fear?

Jesus does not say, “Remain in anxiety.” He does not say, “Remain in suspicion.” He says, “Abide in my love.” The Church is healthiest when it remembers that it is first a community shaped by the love it has received from Christ. Not a community held together by uniformity or control, but by grace.

And notice something else in the gospel: Jesus says these things so that “my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.” Joy is not always the word people associate with church meetings and disagreements. Yet here, even in Acts, we glimpse what joyful faithfulness looks like. It looks like people listening carefully to one another. It looks like making space for those whom God is calling. It looks like refusing to place obstacles where God has offered welcome. That remains a challenge for the Church in every generation. There are always temptations to confuse our preferences with the gospel itself. There are always moments when we risk making faith feel like a burden rather than good news. But today’s readings call us back to what is central: the grace of God given freely in Jesus Christ.

And perhaps that is the invitation for us today. To ask ourselves not simply whether we are busy with church life, but whether we are abiding in Christ’s love. Whether our words, our decisions, and our relationships are rooted in that love. Whether people encounter, through us, something of the joy of the gospel. Because when the Church remains close to Christ, it becomes a place where others can breathe a little more freely. A place where grace is visible. A place where people discover that God’s welcome may be wider than they had dared hope. And that, in the end, is good news indeed.

Amen.