Reflection

Reflection: The Movement of God (22nd Apr, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Acts 8.1b–8 – And Saul approved of their killing him. That day a severe persecution began against the church in Jerusalem, and all except the apostles were scattered throughout the countryside of Judea and Samaria. Devout men buried Stephen and made loud lamentation over him. But Saul was ravaging the church by entering house after house; dragging off both men and women, he committed them to prison. Now those who were scattered went from place to place, proclaiming the word. Philip went down to the city of Samaria and proclaimed the Messiah to them. The crowds with one accord listened eagerly to what was said by Philip, hearing and seeing the signs that he did, for unclean spirits, crying with loud shrieks, came out of many who were possessed; and many others who were paralysed or lame were cured. So there was great joy in that city.

John 6.35–40 – Jesus said to them, ‘I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty. But I said to you that you have seen me and yet do not believe. Everything that the Father gives me will come to me, and anyone who comes to me I will never drive away; for I have come down from heaven, not to do my own will, but the will of him who sent me. And this is the will of him who sent me, that I should lose nothing of all that he has given me, but raise it up on the last day. This is indeed the will of my Father, that all who see the Son and believe in him may have eternal life; and I will raise them up on the last day.’

Reflection

There is a quiet thread that runs through both of our readings today: the movement of God’s life into places we might not expect.

In our reading from Acts, the Church is scattered. What began as a gathered community in Jerusalem is suddenly dispersed by persecution. It looks, at first glance, like a moment of loss; a breaking apart, a forced ending. And yet, as those early believers are scattered, they carry the good news with them. Philip goes to Samaria, a place of long-standing division and suspicion, and there the message of Christ takes root. What seemed like disruption becomes the very means by which the gospel travels further than before.

It is not a comfortable movement. It is not chosen. But it is real and it is fruitful.

Alongside that, in John’s Gospel, we hear Jesus speak with a different kind of steadiness: “I am the bread of life.” It is a statement of deep assurance. In a world that shifts and scatters, here is something, someone, who remains constant. “Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”

And then those words of promise: “Anyone who comes to me I will never drive away.”

That is not simply an invitation; it is a commitment. A commitment that holds, regardless of where someone finds themselves; whether gathered securely, or scattered into unfamiliar territory.

When we place these two readings side by side, something begins to emerge. The scattered Church in Acts is not abandoned. The presence of Christ goes with them. The promise of John’s Gospel is not tied to a particular place, or a settled community, but to the person of Jesus himself.

So wherever the disciples go, even into Samaria, they do not go empty-handed. They go with the one who has already promised to receive all who come, and to lose none of those given to him.

And perhaps that speaks into our own experience more than we might first think.

There are times when faith feels settled, familiar, rooted in place and rhythm. And there are times when it feels more like scattering; when circumstances shift, when we find ourselves in places we would not have chosen, when the shape of life changes around us.

The question these readings gently place before us is not whether those moments will come, because as sure as eggs is eggs, they will, but where Christ is within them.

And the answer they offer is simple, but profound: he is already there.

The one who calls himself the bread of life is not confined to where things feel stable or known. He meets people on the move, in the unfamiliar, even in places shaped by division or uncertainty. And his promise remains unchanged: that those who come to him will be received, held, and not lost.

In Acts, the result of that is striking in its simplicity: there is joy in the city.

Joy, not because everything is easy, but because the life of Christ has taken root in a new place, among new people.

That may be the quiet invitation for us today. Not to seek out disruption for its own sake, but to recognise that wherever we find ourselves, whether settled or unsettled, Christ is present, and his life is still being offered.

And if we are willing to trust that, even gently, even tentatively, then we too may begin to glimpse something of that same joy.

Amen.

Reflection: Light Rooted in Love, a homily on John 3:16

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Reading

John 3.16–21 – ‘For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. ‘Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him. Those who believe in him are not condemned; but those who do not believe are condemned already, because they have not believed in the name of the only Son of God. And this is the judgement, that the light has come into the world, and people loved darkness rather than light because their deeds were evil. For all who do evil hate the light and do not come to the light, so that their deeds may not be exposed. But those who do what is true come to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that their deeds have been done in God.’

Reflection

If I were to switch off all the lights in this room, it wouldn’t take long before things became uncomfortable.

We’d still be here. The room wouldn’t have changed. But suddenly we’d be unsure of where we were stepping, unsure of what was around us. Darkness has that effect.

And it’s interesting that in this well-known passage from the Gospel of John, Jesus speaks not only about love (though of course this most famous of verses begins there) but also about light and darkness.

“God so loved the world that he gave his only Son.”

These words come from a conversation Jesus is having with Nicodemus, a Jewish Pharisee who comes to Jesus at night, in the dark, uncertain and searching. And for many people still today, these words are the very heart of the Christian faith.

Not that God tolerated the world. Not that God judged the world from a distance. But that God loved the world, this world, with all its beauty and all its brokenness, enough to come among us in Christ.

And that love has a purpose. Not condemnation. Not rejection. But salvation.

Jesus then goes on to say something really striking: that the coming of Christ into the world is like light shining into darkness.

Light changes things. The moment light appears, we begin to see clearly. What was hidden becomes visible. What was uncertain becomes known. And that can be both comforting and unsettling.

Jesus says that people sometimes prefer darkness to light because the light reveals things we might rather keep hidden. That’s a deeply human truth. All of us carry things we’d rather not expose: mistakes we regret, failures we wish we could undo, parts of ourselves we would rather keep in the shadows.

And yet the remarkable thing about this passage is that the light comes because of love. Christ does not shine light into our lives in order to shame us or condemn us. Christ shines light to heal and to guide. To show us the path that leads to life and salvation.

It’s a little like walking along a dark path at night. Without light we hesitate, unsure where to place our feet. But with even a small light, suddenly we can move forward with confidence.

And the invitation of this passage is in many ways simple. To step into the light. Not because we are perfect. Not because we have everything sorted out. But because we come to trust and believe in the one who is the light.

In parish life to-date I have often met people who assume faith is something you come to once you’ve sorted everything out; once life is tidy and the questions are answered. But this passage suggests the opposite. Faith is first about simply stepping into the light. It is allowing Christ to illuminate our lives, gently, patiently, and trusting that the God who loved the world enough to send his Son is the same God who meets us exactly where we are.

“For God so loved the world…”

Those words are so familiar that we sometimes forget how extraordinary they are. The Christian story begins not with our human effort, but with divine love. And it continues with that simple, yet profound invitation:

Come into the light.
Walk in the light.
Live in the light.

Because the light that Christ brings is not there to expose us to judgment and condemnation. It is there to save us and to lead us home.

Amen.

Reflection: Trust in Eternity (26th Mar, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Genesis 17.3–9 – Then Abram fell on his face; and God said to him, ‘As for me, this is my covenant with you: You shall be the ancestor of a multitude of nations. No longer shall your name be Abram, but your name shall be Abraham; for I have made you the ancestor of a multitude of nations. I will make you exceedingly fruitful; and I will make nations of you, and kings shall come from you. I will establish my covenant between me and you, and your offspring after you throughout their generations, for an everlasting covenant, to be God to you and to your offspring after you. And I will give to you, and to your offspring after you, the land where you are now an alien, all the land of Canaan, for a perpetual holding; and I will be their God.’ God said to Abraham, ‘As for you, you shall keep my covenant, you and your offspring after you throughout their generations.

John 8.51–end – Very truly, I tell you, whoever keeps my word will never see death.’ The Jews said to him, ‘Now we know that you have a demon. Abraham died, and so did the prophets; yet you say, “Whoever keeps my word will never taste death.” Are you greater than our father Abraham, who died? The prophets also died. Who do you claim to be?’ Jesus answered, ‘If I glorify myself, my glory is nothing. It is my Father who glorifies me, he of whom you say, “He is our God”, though you do not know him. But I know him; if I were to say that I do not know him, I would be a liar like you. But I do know him and I keep his word. Your ancestor Abraham rejoiced that he would see my day; he saw it and was glad.’ Then the Jews said to him, ‘You are not yet fifty years old, and have you seen Abraham?’Jesus said to them, ‘Very truly, I tell you, before Abraham was, I am.’ So they picked up stones to throw at him, but Jesus hid himself and went out of the temple.

Reflection

There is a moment in both of our readings today where something eternal and perhaps beyond our comprehension breaks into the present day and our limited human understanding of time.

In our reading from Genesis, Abram falls on his face before God. And in that moment, everything changes. A new covenant is spoken. A new future is promised. Even a new name is given: Abraham, “father of many nations.” What God is doing is not just about Abram’s private faith; it is about a promise that stretches far beyond him, into generations he will never see or know.

And in John’s Gospel, we hear Jesus speak words that are just as staggering: “Very truly, I tell you, whoever keeps my word will never see death.” It is no wonder that those listening are confused, even offended. They hear these words in ordinary time, in an ordinary place; and yet Jesus is speaking about something far from ordinary.

At the heart of both readings is the question of identity and of trust.

Abraham is asked to trust in a promise that seems impossible. He is old, his circumstances are fixed, his future looks limited. And yet God speaks a different word over his life; a word of covenant, of faithfulness, of life beyond what he can see.

And in John’s Gospel, Jesus takes that same thread and draws it even further. He speaks not just of future generations, but of eternal life; life that begins now and cannot be taken away, even by death itself.

But the people around him struggle. They say, “Abraham died… the prophets also died… so who do you think you are?” It’s a very human question. Because what Jesus is saying doesn’t fit easily within the boundaries of what they know, or what they expect. And perhaps it doesn’t always fit easily for us, either. Because we live, most of the time, within what we can see and measure. We make sense of life through what feels immediate and tangible. And yet both of these readings invite us to lift our gaze; to see that God’s purposes are always larger, deeper, and more enduring than we might first imagine. When Jesus says, “before Abraham was, I am,” he is not simply making a statement about time. He is revealing something about who he is; the one in whom God’s promises are not just spoken, but fulfilled. The one in whom eternity meets us, here and now.

And so the question for us is not simply, “Do we understand this?” but “Do we trust this?”

Do we trust that God’s covenant faithfulness, first spoken to Abraham, still holds? Do we trust that in Christ, life is stronger than death? Do we trust that when we follow his word, we are drawn into something that will outlast everything else we know?

Because that is the invitation at the heart of these readings. Not just to admire Abraham’s faith, or to puzzle over Jesus’ words, but to step into that same relationship of trust. A trust that says: God is at work, even when I cannot see the outcome. A trust that says: my life is held within a promise that is bigger than my present circumstances. A trust that says: in Christ, I am drawn into life that does not end.

And perhaps that changes how we live now.

It gives us courage to be faithful in small things. It gives us hope in moments of uncertainty or fear. And it reminds us that our story is not bounded by what is immediate but held within the eternal purposes of God. Abraham could not see the fullness of the promise he was given. Those listening to Jesus could not yet grasp the fullness of who he was. And we, too, see only in part. But still, the invitation remains the same: To trust the God who makes covenant. To listen to the voice of Christ. And to live, even now, in the light of eternal life.

Amen.

Reflection: A Call to Clarity (12th Mar, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Jeremiah 7.23–28 – But this command I gave them, ‘Obey my voice, and I will be your God, and you shall be my people; and walk only in the way that I command you, so that it may be well with you.’ Yet they did not obey or incline their ear, but, in the stubbornness of their evil will, they walked in their own counsels, and looked backwards rather than forwards. From the day that your ancestors came out of the land of Egypt until this day, I have persistently sent all my servants the prophets to them, day after day; yet they did not listen to me, or pay attention, but they stiffened their necks. They did worse than their ancestors did. So you shall speak all these words to them, but they will not listen to you. You shall call to them, but they will not answer you. You shall say to them: This is the nation that did not obey the voice of the Lord their God, and did not accept discipline; truth has perished; it is cut off from their lips.

Luke 11.14–23 – Now he was casting out a demon that was mute; when the demon had gone out, the one who had been mute spoke, and the crowds were amazed. But some of them said, ‘He casts out demons by Beelzebul, the ruler of the demons.’ Others, to test him, kept demanding from him a sign from heaven. But he knew what they were thinking and said to them, ‘Every kingdom divided against itself becomes a desert, and house falls on house. If Satan also is divided against himself, how will his kingdom stand? —for you say that I cast out the demons by Beelzebul. Now if I cast out the demons by Beelzebul, by whom do your exorcists cast them out? Therefore they will be your judges. But if it is by the finger of God that I cast out the demons, then the kingdom of God has come to you. When a strong man, fully armed, guards his castle, his property is safe. But when one stronger than he attacks him and overpowers him, he takes away his armour in which he trusted and divides his plunder. Whoever is not with me is against me, and whoever does not gather with me scatters.

Reflection

There is something very direct, uncomfortable even, about today’s readings. In both Jeremiah and Luke, we hear a call to clarity: clarity about listening to God, clarity about where we stand; clarity about the direction of our hearts.

In Jeremiah, God speaks with a mixture of longing and sorrow. The command is simple: “Listen to my voice, and I will be your God, and you shall be my people.” It is not complicated. Not a matter of elaborate ritual or clever theology. Simply this: listen, walk in the way God shows you, and life will flourish.

And yet, the prophet tells us, the people did not listen. Instead, they “walked in their own counsels,” following what Jeremiah calls “the stubbornness of their evil will.” It is a striking phrase. Because it reminds us that faithfulness is often not undone by ignorance but by resistance; by that quiet, persistent preference for our own way over God’s.

Jeremiah’s lament is not only about ancient Israel. It is about every age and, if we are honest, about us too. We know what it is to hear God’s voice in Scripture, in conscience, in prayer, and still find ourselves turning aside. Sometimes gently, sometimes deliberately, but often repeatedly.

Then we turn to the Gospel, and the tone sharpens further. Jesus has just freed a man from a mute spirit; a clear act of healing and restoration. Yet instead of rejoicing, some accuse him of working by the power of evil. Others demand more signs, as though what they have just witnessed were not enough.

Jesus responds with a simple and searching truth: a divided kingdom cannot stand. If his work is bringing freedom, restoration, and life, then it bears the mark of God’s kingdom. And if God’s kingdom is breaking in, then neutrality is no longer possible. As he puts it starkly: “Whoever is not with me is against me, and whoever does not gather with me scatters.”

It is a hard saying. We often prefer softer edges with space for ambiguity, for keeping our options open. But Jesus speaks into that hesitation. His words suggest that faith is not merely a private sympathy or quiet admiration. It is allegiance. It is direction. It is a way of living that gathers rather than scatters.

When we place these readings side by side, a pattern emerges. Jeremiah shows us the danger of refusing to listen; Luke shows us the danger of refusing to decide. Both point us toward the same question: where, and to whom, are we really listening?

Because the truth is, we are always listening to something. The voice of habit. The voice of fear. The voice of convenience. The voice of the crowd. The question is whether, beneath all that noise, we are making space to listen for God.

The good news in both readings is that God has not stopped speaking. The same God who spoke through Jeremiah continues to call his people back into relationship. The same Jesus who freed the man from silence continues to bring freedom and clarity into our lives.

So perhaps our prayer today is a that God would give us ears to hear, courage to choose, and grace to follow. That we might not walk in stubbornness, but in trust. Not scattered, but gathered into the life of Christ. And in that listening and following, discover again the life and peace God longs to give.

Amen.

Crossing Boundaries: a reflection following two recent encounters

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I have recently had two encounters that have stayed with me, at least in part because of how starkly they stood alongside one another.

The first was gentle and humbling. Someone of another faith asked if I would pray for them as they grieved the death of someone they knew and loved. There was nothing performative in the moment, no sense of comparison or argument; simply grief, and a quiet trust that prayer might be a place where sorrow could be held. I found myself deeply moved that they crossed what we often assume to be a firm boundary — that of religious identity — and did so with such simplicity and openness.

Their request called to mind the words of St Paul: “Bear one another’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfil the law of Christ” (Galatians 6.2). In that moment, the burden they carried became, in a small way, mine too, and it felt entirely natural that it should be that way. Grief has a way of dissolving the lines we draw around ourselves; prayer, at its best, does the same.

The second encounter, not long afterwards, was of a very different character. Someone of the Christian faith asked if they might have a moment of my time. What followed was filled with unsubstantiated and unfounded claims, and shaped by a deep suspicion of people of another faith. I found myself listening with a growing sense of sorrow and dismay, not only at what was said, but at how easily fear had hardened into caricature, and how readily fellow human beings had been turned into abstractions.

In the sharp light of that contrast, I found myself recalling Jesus’ words in the Sermon on the Mount: “Why do you see the speck in your neighbour’s eye, but do not notice the log in your own?” (Matthew 7.3). The words are uncomfortable, but they are meant to be. They invite us to examine not only what we believe, but how we hold those beliefs in relation to others.

If the first encounter spoke of trust across difference, the second revealed how fragile such trust can be when fear and prejudice take root. And yet the gospel calls us elsewhere. Again and again, Jesus steps across boundaries — ethnic, religious, moral — and calls his followers to do the same. The parable of the Good Samaritan remains perhaps the most searching reminder that neighbourliness is not defined by religious identity but by shared humanity (Luke 10.25–37).

I have found myself wondering whether these encounters, taken together, form a kind of parable for our time. One person, shaped by a different tradition, instinctively reached outward in trust. Another, formed within the Christian story, spoke in ways that narrowed rather than enlarged the circle of concern. The contrast was deeply uncomfortable and starkly visible.

As Christians, we profess allegiance to the One who “has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us” (Ephesians 2.14). To follow him must surely mean resisting the easy temptations of suspicion and ‘othering,’ and allowing our hearts to be reshaped by compassion, humility and truth.

These encounters have reminded me that the boundaries we imagine to be fixed are often far more porous than we think, and that grace so often meets us precisely at their crossing.