Reflection

Reflection: Courage in Prayer (26th Feb, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Esther 14.1–5, 12–14 – Then Queen Esther, seized with deadly anxiety, fled to the Lord. She took off her splendid apparel and put on the garments of distress and mourning, and instead of costly perfumes she covered her head with ashes and dung, and she utterly humbled her body; every part that she loved to adorn she covered with her tangled hair. She prayed to the Lord God of Israel, and said: ‘O my Lord, you only are our king; help me, who am alone and have no helper but you, for my danger is in my hand. Ever since I was born I have heard in the tribe of my family that you, O Lord, took Israel out of all the nations, and our ancestors from among all their forebears, for an everlasting inheritance, and that you did for them all that you promised. Remember, O Lord; make yourself known in this time of our affliction, and give me courage, O King of the gods and Master of all dominion! Put eloquent speech in my mouth before the lion, and turn his heart to hate the man who is fighting against us, so that there may be an end of him and those who agree with him. But save us by your hand, and help me, who am alone and have no helper but you, O Lord.

Matthew 7.7–12 – ‘Ask, and it will be given to you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened. Is there anyone among you who, if your child asks for bread, will give a stone? Or if the child asks for a fish, will give a snake? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good things to those who ask him! ‘In everything do to others as you would have them do to you; for this is the law and the prophets.

Reflection

In our first reading today, we meet Queen Esther at a moment of absolute crisis. The future of her people hangs in the balance. A decree of destruction has been issued. Fear fills the air. And Esther – a young Jewish woman who has become queen in a foreign court – finds herself standing at a turning point in history.

As a result, we hear Esther pray. She does not begin with confidence in herself. She does not rehearse her influence or position. She simply turns to God.

“My Lord, our King, you alone are God.”

Her prayer is raw and honest. She speaks of fear. She speaks of isolation. She acknowledges her powerlessness. And yet she manages to ask for help. She asks for courage. She asks for the right words. She asks that her weakness might become the very place where God’s strength is revealed.

Esther’s prayer is not polite or distant. It is urgent. It is risky. It is the prayer of someone who knows that unless God acts, there is no hope.

Turning, then, to our Gospel reading, Jesus says something that almost sounds dangerously simple:

“Ask, and it will be given you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you.”

Ask. Search. Knock.

These are not passive words. They suggest persistence. They suggest trust. They suggest relationship.

Esther embodies exactly this kind of prayer. She asks. She seeks. She knocks. Not because she is certain of the outcome, but because she trusts the character of the One to whom she prays.

Jesus goes on to say that if earthly parents, imperfect as they are, know how to give good gifts to their children, how much more will our Father in heaven give good things to those who ask him.

Notice what Jesus does not promise. He does not promise ease. He does not promise immediate solutions. Esther’s story reminds us of that. Even after she prays, she must still act. She must still risk approaching the king uninvited. She must still step into danger.

Prayer does not remove her responsibility; it strengthens her for it.

And that is often how God answers our asking.

Sometimes we long for circumstances to change instantly. We knock on the door hoping it will swing open onto a clear and comfortable path. But often what we are given is courage. Clarity. The next step. The grace to speak when we are afraid.

Esther’s prayer begins in fear but moves towards trust. She places her life in God’s hands. And in doing so, she becomes part of God’s saving work.

Jesus concludes this passage with what we often call the Golden Rule: “In everything do to others as you would have them do to you.” Prayer and action are bound together. We ask for mercy; we are called to show mercy. We seek justice; we are called to practise justice. We knock on the door of God’s generosity; we are invited to become generous ourselves.

Perhaps today we each carry something that feels overwhelming — something in our family, our community, our world. Esther reminds us that fear does not disqualify us from prayer. In fact, it may be the very place where prayer begins.

And Jesus assures us that when we ask, we are not speaking into emptiness. We are speaking to a Father who hears. When we seek, we are not wandering aimlessly. We are searching in the presence of One who desires to be found. When we knock, we do so at a door that is not locked against us.

The invitation, then, is simple and yet profound: pray boldly. Act faithfully. Trust deeply.

For the God who strengthened Esther is the same God who hears us still.

Amen.

Reflection: Turn Towards God (25th Feb, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Jonah 3 – The word of the Lord came to Jonah a second time, saying, ‘Get up, go to Nineveh, that great city, and proclaim to it the message that I tell you.’ So Jonah set out and went to Nineveh, according to the word of the Lord. Now Nineveh was an exceedingly large city, a three days’ walk across. Jonah began to go into the city, going a day’s walk. And he cried out, ‘Forty days more, and Nineveh shall be overthrown!’ And the people of Nineveh believed God; they proclaimed a fast, and everyone, great and small, put on sackcloth. When the news reached the king of Nineveh, he rose from his throne, removed his robe, covered himself with sackcloth, and sat in ashes. Then he had a proclamation made in Nineveh: ‘By the decree of the king and his nobles: No human being or animal, no herd or flock, shall taste anything. They shall not feed, nor shall they drink water. Human beings and animals shall be covered with sackcloth, and they shall cry mightily to God. All shall turn from their evil ways and from the violence that is in their hands. Who knows? God may relent and change his mind; he may turn from his fierce anger, so that we do not perish.’ When God saw what they did, how they turned from their evil ways, God changed his mind about the calamity that he had said he would bring upon them; and he did not do it.

Luke 11.29–32 – When the crowds were increasing, Jesus began to say, ‘This generation is an evil generation; it asks for a sign, but no sign will be given to it except the sign of Jonah. For just as Jonah became a sign to the people of Nineveh, so the Son of Man will be to this generation. The queen of the South will rise at the judgement with the people of this generation and condemn them, because she came from the ends of the earth to listen to the wisdom of Solomon, and see, something greater than Solomon is here! The people of Nineveh will rise up at the judgement with this generation and condemn it, because they repented at the proclamation of Jonah, and see, something greater than Jonah is here!’

Reflection

In our readings today we are given a reluctant prophet and a restless crowd, and both narratives are run through with themes that we find throughout this season of Lent: the emptying of ourselves; turning away from the things that separate us from God in repentance; turning towards God’s loving grace and mercy.

In Jonah chapter 3, we are told that the word of the Lord comes to Jonah a second time. That little phrase is full of grace in itself. Jonah has already run away. He has resisted, sulked, and very nearly drowned. And yet God speaks again. The call is not withdrawn. The mission is not cancelled. “Get up, go to Nineveh…”

Nineveh is vast, powerful, violent — the capital of an empire known for cruelty. And Jonah’s message is hardly elaborate: “Forty days more, and Nineveh shall be overthrown!” No miracles. No eloquence. No reassuring promises. Just a warning.

And astonishingly, the people of Nineveh believe God.

From the greatest to the least, they fast, they put on sackcloth, they turn from violence. Even the king rises from his throne, removes his robe, and sits in ashes. It is a picture of corporate repentance — a whole city humbled, a whole community turning around.

And God, we are told, sees what they do. God sees that they turn from their evil ways. And God changes his mind about the calamity. Mercy triumphs over destruction.

Then, in Luke’s Gospel, we meet another crowd — but this time the mood is different. They gather around Jesus, looking for a sign. Something spectacular. Something undeniable. Something to prove who Jesus really is.

Jesus calls them “an evil generation” — not because they are uniquely wicked, but because they refuse to see what is already before them. They want signs, but they will not recognise the sign they have been given.

“The only sign that will be given,” Jesus says, “is the sign of Jonah.”

What is that sign?

It is not simply the three days that Jonah spent in the belly of the fish, though the Church has long heard in that an echo of Good Friday and Easter. It is also the message that calls people to turn around; to turn away from evil and wickedness and return to God. It is the mercy of God that meets those who do.

The people of Nineveh responded to a reluctant prophet who had a short warning. Jesus stands before his hearers as one greater than Jonah, and yet the response he receives is hesitation, suspicion, demand.

The uncomfortable question for us is this: are we more like Nineveh, or more like the crowd?

Lent is not a season for demanding signs. It is a season for noticing the signs already given. The cross. The empty tomb. The quiet persistence of God’s word. The second chances that come to us again and again.

Jonah shows us that God’s purposes are not thwarted by human reluctance. Nineveh shows us that no situation is beyond repentance and restoration. And Jesus shows us that God’s mercy stands in our midst, whether we recognise it or not.

Because of course Christ himself is the sign. In him, God does not merely warn of judgement but bears it for us. In him, God does not stand at a distance but enters the city, enters the wilderness, enters death itself. The sign of Jonah becomes the sign of resurrection — mercy written into the very fabric of the world.

So perhaps the invitation today is simple.

We do not need to ask for more proof. We are invited to respond to the signs that we already have. To turn away, however slightly, from what diminishes life and towards God, in trust that God’s desire is always mercy and new life.

Because as we’ve heard, the word of the Lord still comes — sometimes quietly, sometimes persistently — and often more than once.

And when it does, the greatest miracle is not a sign in the sky.

It is a heart that turns towards God.

Amen.

Reflection: Integrity of Heart (12th Feb, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

1 Kings 11.4–13 – For when Solomon was old, his wives turned away his heart after other gods; and his heart was not true to the Lord his God, as was the heart of his father David. For Solomon followed Astarte the goddess of the Sidonians, and Milcom the abomination of the Ammonites. So Solomon did what was evil in the sight of the Lord, and did not completely follow the Lord, as his father David had done. Then Solomon built a high place for Chemosh the abomination of Moab, and for Molech the abomination of the Ammonites, on the mountain east of Jerusalem. He did the same for all his foreign wives, who offered incense and sacrificed to their gods. Then the Lord was angry with Solomon, because his heart had turned away from the Lord, the God of Israel, who had appeared to him twice, and had commanded him concerning this matter, that he should not follow other gods; but he did not observe what the Lord commanded. Therefore the Lord said to Solomon, ‘Since this has been your mind and you have not kept my covenant and my statutes that I have commanded you, I will surely tear the kingdom from you and give it to your servant. Yet for the sake of your father David I will not do it in your lifetime; I will tear it out of the hand of your son. I will not, however, tear away the entire kingdom; I will give one tribe to your son, for the sake of my servant David and for the sake of Jerusalem, which I have chosen.’

Mark 7.24–30 – From there he set out and went away to the region of Tyre. He entered a house and did not want anyone to know he was there. Yet he could not escape notice, but a woman whose little daughter had an unclean spirit immediately heard about him, and she came and bowed down at his feet. Now the woman was a Gentile, of Syrophoenician origin. She begged him to cast the demon out of her daughter. He said to her, ‘Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.’ But she answered him, ‘Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.’ Then he said to her, ‘For saying that, you may go—the demon has left your daughter.’ So she went home, found the child lying on the bed, and the demon gone.

Reflection

Our two readings today place before us a fascinating contrast: the slow turning away of a heart that once knew God well, and the bold, persistent faith of someone who seems, at first, to stand far outside God’s people.

In the reading from Kings, we meet Solomon at the end of a long journey. Earlier in his life, Solomon prayed for wisdom rather than power or wealth, and God delighted in that request. He built the temple, led the people, and was known throughout the world for his insight and discernment. Yet today’s passage is deeply unsettling. We are told that “when Solomon was old, his heart turned after other gods.” Not all at once. Not in a dramatic rejection. But gradually, subtly, his heart is “not true to the Lord his God”.

What makes this passage so uncomfortable is that Solomon does not appear to have stopped believing in God altogether. Rather, his devotion becomes divided. He accommodates other loyalties, other voices, other priorities, until God is no longer at the centre. The problem is not just the presence of other gods, but the erosion of his wholehearted faith. The God who asked Solomon to walk before him “with integrity of heart” now finds that heart pulled in many directions. So Solomon’s story reminds us that faith is not only tested in moments of crisis, but in long seasons of success and comfort, too.

When we turn to the Gospel reading, we encounter someone very different. The woman who approaches Jesus is a Gentile, a Syrophoenician by birth, and she knows exactly how far outside the religious boundaries she stands. Yet she does not hesitate. She seeks Jesus out, enters the house, and interrupts him. Mark tells us that she begs him to cast the demon out of her daughter – the word carries a sense of insistence and urgency. This is not a quiet appeal from the margins, but a deliberate act of courage.

Jesus’ reply is challenging, even confrontational. He speaks of children and dogs, of priority and exclusion. But the woman does not retreat, and she does not accept silence as an answer. Instead, she engages him. She listens carefully, and then she answers back – quickly, intelligently, and with wit. “Even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” It is a bold, incisive response. She takes Jesus’ image and turns it, not in self-pity, but in confidence that God’s generosity cannot be contained. If there is abundance at the table, she trusts that it will spill over. She knows exactly who Jesus is and exactly where her hope lies.

What Jesus recognises here is not resignation but faith with backbone. The woman refuses to be dismissed, refuses to accept that mercy must be some scarce or tightly guarded thing kept behind exclusive walls. Her persistence and insight becomes the very sign of her faith, and Jesus responds accordingly: her daughter is healed.

Placed together, these readings remind us that faith is not primarily about where we start, but about the direction in which we are turning. Solomon’s life warns us that wisdom and blessing do not make us immune to drift. The Syrophoenician woman encourages us that even from the edges, a determined trust in God can open the door to healing and life. Solomon moves from wisdom to compromise, from attentiveness to distraction. The woman moves from exclusion to encounter, from boundary to breakthrough.

In our own lives, this invites us to pause and reflect. Where are we becoming divided in heart? Where might we be accommodating just enough of God to be comfortable, without allowing God to challenge and transform us? And at the same time, where might we need the courage of this unnamed woman: to come to God as we are, to speak honestly and to persist in prayer, trusting that God’s mercy is wider than we imagine?

Amen.

Reflection: From Within (11th Feb, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

1 Kings 10.1–10 – When the queen of Sheba heard of the fame of Solomon, (fame due to the name of the Lord), she came to test him with hard questions. She came to Jerusalem with a very great retinue, with camels bearing spices, and very much gold, and precious stones; and when she came to Solomon, she told him all that was on her mind. Solomon answered all her questions; there was nothing hidden from the king that he could not explain to her. When the queen of Sheba had observed all the wisdom of Solomon, the house that he had built, the food of his table, the seating of his officials, and the attendance of his servants, their clothing, his valets, and his burnt-offerings that he offered at the house of the Lord, there was no more spirit in her. So she said to the king, ‘The report was true that I heard in my own land of your accomplishments and of your wisdom, but I did not believe the reports until I came and my own eyes had seen it. Not even half had been told me; your wisdom and prosperity far surpass the report that I had heard. Happy are your wives! Happy are these your servants, who continually attend you and hear your wisdom! Blessed be the Lord your God, who has delighted in you and set you on the throne of Israel! Because the Lord loved Israel for ever, he has made you king to execute justice and righteousness.’ Then she gave the king one hundred and twenty talents of gold, a great quantity of spices, and precious stones; never again did spices come in such quantity as that which the queen of Sheba gave to King Solomon.

Mark 7.14–23 – Then he called the crowd again and said to them, ‘Listen to me, all of you, and understand: there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile.’ When he had left the crowd and entered the house, his disciples asked him about the parable. He said to them, ‘Then do you also fail to understand? Do you not see that whatever goes into a person from outside cannot defile, since it enters, not the heart but the stomach, and goes out into the sewer?’ (Thus he declared all foods clean.) And he said, ‘It is what comes out of a person that defiles. For it is from within, from the human heart, that evil intentions come: fornication, theft, murder, adultery, avarice, wickedness, deceit, licentiousness, envy, slander, pride, folly. All these evil things come from within, and they defile a person.’

Reflection

In our first reading today, the Queen of Sheba travels a great distance to see King Solomon. She has heard reports of his wisdom, his wealth, and the blessing of God upon his kingdom, and she comes with questions—hard questions, Scripture says—to test him. What she encounters leaves her almost breathless. Solomon’s wisdom, the ordering of his court, the generosity of his hospitality, and the depth of his understanding all bear witness to a gift that comes from God. She recognises that this is not simply human cleverness or success, but something rooted in faithfulness to the Lord.

At first glance, this might sound like a celebration of outward splendour: gold, spices, fine buildings, and impressive answers. Yet the heart of the story is not really about riches at all. It is about wisdom that listens, wisdom that responds, and wisdom that points beyond itself to God. The Queen of Sheba praises the Lord not because Solomon is impressive, but because she discerns that his wisdom is a sign of God’s love for his people and God’s desire for justice and right-ordered relationships.

When we turn to the Gospel reading from Mark, the focus shifts sharply inward. Jesus addresses the crowd and tells them that nothing entering a person from outside can defile them. Instead, it is what comes out from within—from the human heart—that can truly defile. He then lists attitudes and actions that flow from disordered hearts: envy, pride, deceit, malice, and greed. These, he says, are the things that corrupt human life.

Placed side by side, these readings invite us to ask probing questions: where does true wisdom begin? Is it something we display outwardly, or something that takes root deep within us?

The Queen of Sheba sees wisdom expressed outwardly—in Solomon’s words and actions—but she recognises that its source is deeper. In the Gospel, Jesus reminds us that the deepest truths of our lives are not found in appearances, rituals, or even reputation, but in the condition of our hearts. A person may look impressive, religious, or successful, yet still be inwardly disordered. Equally, someone may appear ordinary or unimpressive, yet be shaped by a heart turned towards God.

This is challenging for us, because we live in a culture—perhaps not unlike Solomon’s court—that often values what can be seen: achievement, status, eloquence, and success. Even within the life of the Church, it can be tempting to focus on outward signs of health or holiness. Jesus does not dismiss outward practices altogether, but he insists that they are not enough on their own. Without inner transformation, they cannot give life.

True wisdom, then, is not simply about knowing the right answers, as impressive as Solomon’s answers were. It is about allowing God to shape our desires, our motivations, and our loves. It is about letting God’s Spirit work in the hidden places of our lives, where attitudes are formed and decisions are made.

The Queen of Sheba came with questions, and she left with praise—praise not just for Solomon, but for the Lord. In the Gospel, Jesus invites us to bring our own hearts into the light of God’s truth, trusting that God desires not to condemn but to heal and renew.

As we reflect on these readings today, we might ask ourselves: what would a wise heart look like in our own lives, in our communities, and in our Church? Where might God be inviting us to move beyond outward appearances and attend more carefully to what is going on within?

In the end, wisdom is not something we possess for our own glory. Like Solomon’s wisdom, at its best it points beyond us—to the God who longs for hearts made whole, and for lives that reflect God’s justice, mercy, and love.

Reflection: To Lead and Live Humbly (4th Feb, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

2 Samuel 24.2, 9–17 – So the king said to Joab and the commanders of the army, who were with him, ‘Go through all the tribes of Israel, from Dan to Beer-sheba, and take a census of the people, so that I may know how many there are.’ Joab reported to the king the number of those who had been recorded: in Israel there were eight hundred thousand soldiers able to draw the sword, and those of Judah were five hundred thousand.But afterwards, David was stricken to the heart because he had numbered the people. David said to the Lord, ‘I have sinned greatly in what I have done. But now, O Lord, I pray you, take away the guilt of your servant; for I have done very foolishly.’ When David rose in the morning, the word of the Lord came to the prophet Gad, David’s seer, saying, ‘Go and say to David: Thus says the Lord: Three things I offer you; choose one of them, and I will do it to you.’ So Gad came to David and told him; he asked him, ‘Shall three years of famine come to you on your land? Or will you flee for three months before your foes while they pursue you? Or shall there be three days’ pestilence in your land? Now consider, and decide what answer I shall return to the one who sent me.’ Then David said to Gad, ‘I am in great distress; let us fall into the hand of the Lord, for his mercy is great; but let me not fall into human hands.’ So the Lord sent a pestilence on Israel from that morning until the appointed time; and seventy thousand of the people died, from Dan to Beer-sheba. But when the angel stretched out his hand towards Jerusalem to destroy it, the Lord relented concerning the evil, and said to the angel who was bringing destruction among the people, ‘It is enough; now stay your hand.’ The angel of the Lord was then by the threshing-floor of Araunah the Jebusite. When David saw the angel who was destroying the people, he said to the Lord, ‘I alone have sinned, and I alone have done wickedly; but these sheep, what have they done? Let your hand, I pray, be against me and against my father’s house.’

Mark 6.1–6 – He left that place and came to his home town, and his disciples followed him. On the sabbath he began to teach in the synagogue, and many who heard him were astounded. They said, ‘Where did this man get all this? What is this wisdom that has been given to him? What deeds of power are being done by his hands! Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary and brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon, and are not his sisters here with us?’ And they took offence at him. Then Jesus said to them, ‘Prophets are not without honour, except in their home town, and among their own kin, and in their own house.’ And he could do no deed of power there, except that he laid his hands on a few sick people and cured them. And he was amazed at their unbelief. Then he went about among the villages teaching.

Reflection

In our two readings today we meet a difficult and uncomfortable theme: the misuse of power, and the cost that follows when leaders forget their dependence on God.

In the reading from 2 Samuel, King David orders a census of Israel. On the surface, it sounds like a sensible, administrative act. Leaders need information; numbers matter. But the text is clear that something deeper is going on. David wants to count his people in a way that shifts trust from God to human strength. The census becomes a symbol of control, security, and self-reliance. Even Joab, hardly a moral compass, senses that something is wrong.

After the census is completed, David is struck with remorse. He recognises that he has sinned—not simply by counting, but by forgetting who truly sustains Israel. What follows is deeply troubling: the consequences of David’s decision fall not on him alone, but on the people he leads. A plague comes upon the land, and many die.

This passage confronts us with a hard truth: the choices of those in power matter, and they often affect the most vulnerable. Yet it also shows us something vital about God’s character. When David throws himself on God’s mercy, he discovers that mercy is indeed greater than punishment. At the threshing floor of Araunah, judgment is halted. God’s compassion interrupts destruction.

That threshing floor, a place of judgment turned into a place of mercy, will later become the site of the Temple—a reminder that worship begins with humility, repentance, and grace.

Turning to the Gospel reading from Mark, we meet Jesus in his hometown. Here, power takes a very different form. Jesus comes not as a king, but as a carpenter, a familiar face. And because he is familiar, he is dismissed. “Where did this man get all this?” they ask. Their amazement quickly hardens into offence.

Mark tells us that Jesus “could do no deed of power there,” not because his power was limited, but because their lack of faith closed them off to what God was offering. This is not divine punishment; it is human refusal. God does not force transformation upon those who will not receive it.

Placed side by side, these readings offer a striking contrast. David overreaches—grasping at control that does not belong to him—and people suffer. Jesus, by contrast, refuses to impose himself. He respects human freedom, even when it leads to missed blessing.

Both readings ask questions of us.

Where do we place our trust? In numbers, strategies, and self-sufficiency—or in God’s mercy and guidance? And how do we respond when God comes to us in familiar, ordinary forms?

In the life of the Church, we can be tempted toward David’s census: measuring success by attendance, budgets, and statistics. None of these things are unimportant—but they become dangerous when they replace trust in God rather than serve it. Leadership, whether in church, community, or family life, always carries responsibility. Our decisions can heal, or they can harm.

At the same time, the people of Nazareth warn us about another danger: becoming so accustomed to God that we stop expecting anything new. Jesus is present among them, teaching with wisdom and authority, yet they cannot see beyond what they think they already know.

Perhaps the invitation of these readings is this: to lead and to live humbly, knowing our dependence on God; and to remain open, expectant, and receptive when God speaks—especially when God speaks through what feels ordinary.

In both judgment and rejection, mercy is still at work. God stops the plague. Jesus keeps teaching in other villages. God does not give up. And that, ultimately, is good news for us all.

Amen.