Readings

Genesis 2.15–17; 3.1–7 – The Lord God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to till it and keep it. And the Lord God commanded the man, ‘You may freely eat of every tree of the garden; but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall die.’ Now the serpent was more crafty than any other wild animal that the Lord God had made. He said to the woman, ‘Did God say, “You shall not eat from any tree in the garden”?’ The woman said to the serpent, ‘We may eat of the fruit of the trees in the garden; but God said, “You shall not eat of the fruit of the tree that is in the middle of the garden, nor shall you touch it, or you shall die.” ’ But the serpent said to the woman, ‘You will not die; for God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.’ So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate; and she also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate. Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together and made loincloths for themselves.

Romans 5.12–19 – Therefore, just as sin came into the world through one man, and death came through sin, and so death spread to all because all have sinned— sin was indeed in the world before the law, but sin is not reckoned when there is no law. Yet death exercised dominion from Adam to Moses, even over those whose sins were not like the transgression of Adam, who is a type of the one who was to come. But the free gift is not like the trespass. For if the many died through the one man’s trespass, much more surely have the grace of God and the free gift in the grace of the one man, Jesus Christ, abounded for the many. And the free gift is not like the effect of the one man’s sin. For the judgement following one trespass brought condemnation, but the free gift following many trespasses brings justification. If, because of the one man’s trespass, death exercised dominion through that one, much more surely will those who receive the abundance of grace and the free gift of righteousness exercise dominion in life through the one man, Jesus Christ. Therefore just as one man’s trespass led to condemnation for all, so one man’s act of righteousness leads to justification and life for all. For just as by the one man’s disobedience the many were made sinners, so by the one man’s obedience the many will be made righteous.

Matthew 4.1–11 – Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. He fasted for forty days and forty nights, and afterwards he was famished. The tempter came and said to him, ‘If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.’ But he answered, ‘It is written, “One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.” Then the devil took him to the holy city and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, ‘If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down; for it is written, “He will command his angels concerning you”, and “On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.” Jesus said to him, ‘Again it is written, “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.” Again, the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their splendour; and he said to him, ‘All these I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Away with you, Satan! for it is written, “Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.” Then the devil left him, and suddenly angels came and waited on him.

Sermon

Lent begins in a wilderness.

On Ash Wednesday we were marked with ashes and reminded of our mortality: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Today, on the first Sunday in Lent, we follow Jesus into the desert. The Spirit leads him there — not by accident, not by mistake, but deliberately. Lent is not a spiritual detour. It is a necessary journey.

And the Church, in her wisdom, places alongside this Gospel the story of another garden, another testing, another encounter with temptation.

In Genesis, we see humanity placed in a garden of abundance. Adam is given meaningful work — “to till it and keep it.” There is beauty, provision, freedom. Only one boundary: “You shall not eat of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.” It is a gift wrapped in trust. Relationship with responsibility.

But then comes the whisper.

“Did God say…?”

That question is the seed of so much that follows. The serpent does not begin with outright rebellion. He begins with distortion. Doubt. A subtle reframing of God’s generosity as restriction.

“Did God say, ‘You shall not eat from any tree’?”

It is not true — God had given them every tree but one — but temptation often works by magnifying what we do not have and shrinking what we do have. The focus shifts from abundance to prohibition, from trust to suspicion.

And then comes the deeper lie: “You will not die… you will be like God.”

At its heart, the temptation in Eden is about grasping. About seizing what is not ours to take. About stepping out of trust in God into self-determination. It is the temptation to believe that God is withholding something essential, and that we must secure our own flourishing apart from him.

Now fast forward to Matthew’s Gospel.

Jesus stands in another place of testing — not a garden this time, but a wilderness. Not surrounded by abundance, but emptied by forty days of fasting. He is hungry. Vulnerable. Alone.

And again the whisper comes.

“If you are the Son of God…”

Notice how the temptation begins. Just before this episode, at his baptism, Jesus has heard the Father’s voice: “This is my beloved Son.” In the wilderness, that identity is immediately questioned.

“If you are…”

Temptation so often strikes at identity. At trust. At the relationship between the Father and the Son.

The first temptation: turn stones into bread. On the surface, it seems reasonable. He is hungry. What harm in using his power to meet a legitimate need?

But beneath it lies the same distortion as in Eden. It is an invitation to step outside the Father’s will. To grasp, rather than to receive. To satisfy hunger on our own terms rather than live in trust.

Jesus replies with words from Deuteronomy: “One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.”

In Eden, humanity reaches for food in distrust. In the wilderness, Jesus refuses food in trust.

The second temptation: throw yourself down from the pinnacle of the temple. Force God’s hand. Demand spectacle. Even the Scriptures are twisted to support it.

Again, the distortion: testing God rather than trusting him.

The third: all the kingdoms of the world, offered without the cross. Power without suffering. Glory without obedience.

And here we see most clearly what is at stake. The serpent offered Adam and Eve the illusion of godlike autonomy. The devil offers Jesus a shortcut to kingship. Worship me, and you can have it all — no nails, no thorns, no Golgotha.

But Jesus refuses. “Away with you, Satan! For it is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.’”

Where Adam grasped, Jesus yields.
Where Adam doubted, Jesus trusts.
Where Adam hid, Jesus stands firm.

Saint Paul would later call Jesus the “second Adam.” In the wilderness, we see what that means. Jesus relives the human story — but this time, he lives it rightly. Faithfully. Obediently.

And that matters for us.

Because Lent is not merely a season for feeling guilty about temptation. It is a season for learning again how to trust.

The wilderness is not only a place of danger; it is also a place of clarity. When distractions are stripped away, we discover what truly shapes us. Hunger reveals what we rely upon. Silence reveals the voices we are listening to.

What are the whispers in your own wilderness?

“Did God really say?”
“Is God really good?”
“Shouldn’t you secure yourself?”
“Why wait?”
“Why trust?”

Temptation rarely looks dramatic. It often looks like self-protection. Like control. Like the small turning of the heart away from dependence.

And yet the good news of this Sunday is not simply that we should try harder to resist. It is that Christ has gone before us.

He enters the wilderness not merely as an example, but as a representative. He stands where we have fallen. He answers where we have been silent. He trusts where we have grasped.

And he does so for us.

This is why Lent is not a season of despair. It is a season of returning. We do not walk into the wilderness alone. The Spirit who led Jesus leads us. The Son who was faithful intercedes for us. The Father who declared his delight in Christ declares his mercy over us.

Perhaps this week, as we continue our Lenten journey, we might ask ourselves gently:

Where am I being invited to trust rather than grasp?
Where is God asking me to live by his word rather than by my immediate hunger?
Where have I begun to believe that he is withholding good from me?

The ashes on Wednesday reminded us that we are dust. The wilderness reminds us that we are dependent. But the Gospel reminds us that we are not abandoned.

At the end of Matthew’s account, after the devil leaves, we are told that angels came and waited on Jesus.

After the testing, there is ministry. After the wilderness, there is strengthening.

And beyond this wilderness lies another garden — Gethsemane — where once again Jesus will choose trust over self-preservation: “Not my will, but yours be done.” And beyond that, an empty tomb, where the consequences of Eden are completely undone.

So we begin Lent here: not in shame, but in hope. Not in self-reliance, but in repentance. Not alone, but in Christ.

The One who refused the false fruit of the wilderness now feeds us with true bread — his own life, given for the world.

May we follow him in trust.
May we resist the whisper with the truth.
May we learn again that we live not by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.

Amen.

Readings

Romans 8.18–25 – I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us. For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God; for the creation was subjected to futility, not of its own will but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labour pains until now; and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies. For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.

Matthew 6.25–34 – Jesus said to his disciples, ‘Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?And why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? Therefore do not worry, saying, “What will we eat?” or “What will we drink?” or “What will we wear?” For it is the Gentiles who strive for all these things; and indeed your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. ‘So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.’

Sermon

May I speak in the name of God: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.

There is something deeply human about worry. We worry about money, about health, about our children, about the future of the world. We worry about things we can change, and things we absolutely cannot. Some of us worry quietly and inwardly; others of us worry loudly and persistently. But almost all of us worry.

So when Jesus says in our Gospel reading, “Do not worry about your life”, it can feel almost unreal. Perhaps even a little unkind. After all, Jesus, have you seen the state of things? Have you noticed the cost of living, the climate crisis, the pressures on families, the anxieties that sit heavy on so many shoulders?

And yet Jesus does not speak these words from a place of naivety. He speaks them into a world that knew poverty, illness, political oppression, and deep uncertainty. His words are not a denial of reality. They are an invitation to see reality differently.

Paul, in his letter to the Romans, helps us to hold that bigger picture. He does not pretend that suffering isn’t real. On the contrary, he names it honestly. “The sufferings of this present time,” he says. And he goes further still, describing creation itself as groaning, as if in the pains of childbirth. This is a vivid, uncomfortable image. The world, Paul tells us, is not as it should be. It is strained, frustrated, aching for something more.

Many of us will recognise that groaning. We hear it in the news. We feel it in our own bodies and lives. We sense it in the fragile state of the natural world, and in the quiet exhaustion of people who are simply trying to keep going. Christianity, at its best, never denies this groaning. It never offers cheap optimism or easy answers.

But Paul refuses to stop there. The groaning of creation, he says, is not the groaning of despair. It is the groaning of labour pains. Something is being born. Something is on the way.

And that is where hope comes in.

Christian hope is not the same as optimism. Optimism says, “Things will probably turn out all right.” Hope says, “God is at work, even when things are not all right.” Hope is not based on what we can see or control. It is rooted in God’s promises, and in God’s faithfulness.

Paul reminds us that “in hope we were saved.” Not in certainty. Not in comfort. But in hope. A hope that is patient, that endures, that waits.

And that brings us back to Jesus and his words about worry.

When Jesus tells his listeners to look at the birds of the air and the lilies of the field, he is not suggesting that human beings should abandon responsibility or stop working. After all, birds are busy creatures, and flowers grow within the rhythms of the seasons. What Jesus is challenging is the idea that our lives are held together solely by our own anxious effort.

Worry, Jesus suggests, can become a kind of false worship. It tempts us to believe that everything depends on us: our planning, our striving, our control. And when we believe that, the weight becomes unbearable.

Instead, Jesus invites us to trust in a God who knows our needs before we ask. A God whose care extends not only to human beings, but to the whole of creation. A God whose kingdom is not built on fear, but on righteousness, justice, and peace.

“Strive first for the kingdom of God,” Jesus says, “and all these things will be given to you as well.” In other words, re-order your priorities. Lift your eyes. Remember what really matters.

That is a particularly important word as we approach Lent. This season before us is not simply about giving things up or trying harder to be good. It is about learning, again, where our true security lies. It is about loosening our grip on the things we cling to in fear, and opening our hands to receive what God longs to give.

Both Paul and Jesus are calling us away from anxiety and towards trust — not because life is easy, but because God is faithful. Not because suffering is unreal, but because it is not the final word.

The future Paul points to is not an escape from the world, but the renewal of it. Creation itself, he says, will be set free. This is a hope that embraces the whole cosmos: every creature, every landscape, every wounded place. And we, as God’s children, are caught up in that hope.

So when we feel the weight of worry — as we inevitably will — we are invited to bring it into the light of prayer. To place it within the wider story of God’s redeeming love. To remember that we are not alone, and that the future does not rest solely on our shoulders.

We live, as Paul says, in the space between promise and fulfilment. We wait. We hope. We trust. And in that waiting, God is already at work.

May God grant us grace to live not as prisoners of anxiety, but as people of hope. People who seek God’s kingdom, who care for God’s world, and who trust in God’s tomorrow.

Amen.

Readings

Isaiah 9.1–4 – But there will be no gloom for those who were in anguish. In the former time he brought into contempt the land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali, but in the latter time he will make glorious the way of the sea, the land beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the nations. The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness — on them light has shined. You have multiplied the nation, you have increased its joy; they rejoice before you as with joy at the harvest, as people exult when dividing plunder. For the yoke of their burden, and the bar across their shoulders, the rod of their oppressor, you have broken as on the day of Midian.

Matthew 4.12–23 – Now when Jesus heard that John had been arrested, he withdrew to Galilee. He left Nazareth and made his home in Capernaum by the lake, in the territory of Zebulun and Naphtali, so that what had been spoken through the prophet Isaiah might be fulfilled: ‘Land of Zebulun, land of Naphtali, on the road by the sea, across the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles — the people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death light has dawned.’
From that time Jesus began to proclaim, ‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.’ As he walked by the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon, who is called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the lake—for they were fishermen. And he said to them, ‘Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.’ Immediately they left their nets and followed him. As he went from there, he saw two other brothers, James son of Zebedee and his brother John, in the boat with their father Zebedee, mending their nets, and he called them. Immediately they left the boat and their father, and followed him. Jesus went throughout Galilee, teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and curing every disease and every sickness among the people.

Sermon

The season of Epiphany is all about light. It is about God making himself known — not hidden away, not distant, but revealed, shining out into the world as it really is. Each week of Epiphany we are invited to notice where that light falls, and what it shows us.

Today’s readings speak very clearly into that theme. Isaiah proclaims that “the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” And Matthew tells us that Jesus begins his public ministry in Galilee, fulfilling that ancient promise: light dawning in a place long associated with darkness, hardship, and neglect.

This is not accidental. God’s light does not first appear in the centres of power or prestige. It appears on the margins.

Isaiah is speaking to a people who know what darkness feels like. They are not imagining it. This is not poetic exaggeration. They have known invasion, loss, exile, and fear. They have walked in the shadow of death — not as a metaphor, but as lived reality. And it is precisely there that God promises light.

Notice what kind of light Isaiah describes. It is not just comfort for private sorrow. It is a light that changes reality. It brings joy like the joy of harvest. It breaks the yoke of oppression. It shatters the rod of the tyrant. This is not a gentle glow to help people cope — it is a light that transforms the world.

Hold that in mind as we turn to the gospel.

Matthew tells us that after John the Baptist is arrested, Jesus withdraws to Galilee and makes his home in Capernaum — “by the sea, in the territory of Zebulun and Naphtali” – quoting the prophet Isaiah. Matthew is careful, deliberate, almost scholarly here. He wants us to see that this is the fulfilment of Isaiah’s prophecy. But more than that, he wants us to understand what kind of Messiah Jesus is going to be.

Galilee was not the obvious place for the kingdom of God to begin. It was politically unstable, economically poor, religiously suspect in the eyes of the Jerusalem elite. If you wanted to launch a movement of spiritual renewal, Galilee would not have been top of the list. And yet — this is where Jesus begins.

The light dawns where people are tired, overlooked, and uncertain.

And what does Jesus say as he begins his ministry? Not a long explanation. Not a theological lecture. Just this: “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.”

That word “repent” can easily be misunderstood. It is not about self-loathing or fear. At heart, it means to turn — to change direction, to reorient your life because something new has arrived. Jesus is saying: God is closer than you think. Life can be different now. Turn towards it.

The kingdom of heaven is not something distant, postponed, or abstract. It has come near — near enough to touch, near enough to follow, near enough to change everything.

And immediately, Matthew gives us an example of what that looks like.

Jesus walks by the Sea of Galilee and calls Simon Peter and Andrew, James and John. Ordinary working people, busy with nets and boats and family responsibilities. And he says to them, “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.”

And they do something extraordinary. They leave their nets. They leave their boats. James and John even leave their father. And they follow him.

Now, this is not meant to shame us. This is not a test of whether we could do the same tomorrow. It is a picture of what happens when light breaks into darkness — when the kingdom comes near enough to be recognised.

These men are not responding to an idea. They are responding to a person. They are drawn by the presence of Jesus himself. In him, they glimpse a different future, a different way of being human, a different ordering of priorities. And somehow, they know it is worth everything.

That same pattern continues as Jesus goes throughout Galilee: teaching, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and healing every disease and sickness among the people. Word and action together. Truth spoken, and compassion embodied. Light not only proclaimed, but lived.

This is Epiphany faith. Not faith that stays safely inside walls, but faith that steps into real places of pain, confusion, and need. Faith that speaks hope and also does something about it.

So what does all this mean for us, here, today?

First, it reminds us that God’s light still shines in dark places. Not just “out there” in the world’s great crises, but in the quieter, more personal shadows we carry with us. Grief, anxiety, loneliness, uncertainty about the future. Isaiah does not say the people stopped walking in darkness before they saw the light. The light came while they were still walking.

If you are walking in darkness today — unsure, weary, or afraid — the gospel reading today hopefully provides you with assurance that Christ has already come near.

Secondly, this passage invites us to ask what it means to follow Jesus where we are. Most of us are not being asked to leave fishing boats behind. But we are all asked to reorient our lives — to let go of what binds us and holds us back, and to trust that God’s kingdom is more real, more lasting, than the things we cling to for security.

Following Jesus is not about having everything figured out. Peter and Andrew certainly didn’t. It is about responding to the light we have been given and taking that next faithful step.

And finally, these readings remind us that the church is called to be a sign of that light. Not the source of it — Christ is the light — but a reflection of it. A community where burdens are lifted, where healing is sought and found, where good news is spoken in word and deed.

In a world that still knows deep darkness, the message of Epiphany is not naïve optimism. It is hard-won hope. It is the conviction that God has entered fully into the mess of human life, and that nothing is beyond the reach of his redeeming love.

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light. That light is Jesus Christ. And he still walks by the shores of ordinary lives, still says “Follow me,” still proclaims that the kingdom of heaven has come near.

May we have eyes to see that light, hearts ready to turn towards it, and lives willing to reflect it — for the sake of the world God loves.

Amen.